


Flotsam & Jetsam

by hollycomb



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-05
Updated: 2012-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 11:16:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollycomb/pseuds/hollycomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world ends, and ends again, and Stan tries to always know what Kyle needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flotsam & Jetsam

Stan wakes up more slowly than usual on the morning of the first frost. It's late November. When he was a kid the snow would sometimes start in September, but that was a different state, a different planet. 

Kyle and Kenny are already up, Kyle working on breakfast while Kenny stands near the edge of their camp smoking a cigarette. Butters and Cartman are still buried in the mound of animal skins they sleep under. Stan gets up, feeling creaky and old. He turned nineteen last month, on the 19th of October. His golden birthday.

"Fuckin' cold," he mutters as he stands beside Kyle at the fire. Kyle is frying up what looks like a king snake. Stan wishes they could find some birds nests, some eggs, though eating them makes him feel bad. There aren't many birds left. 

"I guess winter is coming," Kyle says. "I was starting to wonder if it ever would." He takes the pan off the fire and uses the blanched stick he cooks with to push some meat over to the side. Stan sits down beside him on the ground and watches him dig out his little pouch of salt. "Want some?" Kyle asks after he's salted his portion. Stan nods. Even with the salt, he finds snake meat almost inedible. 

"You're nearly out," Stan says while they sit beside the fire picking gristle from between their teeth. 

"Huh?" Kyle says.

"Of salt." 

"Oh, yeah. Maybe we'll find a supermarket that hasn't been gutted." 

"Sure," Stan says. They haven't seen anything like that in years. Kenny comes over and passes Stan a cigarette without needing to ask if he wants one. Stan holds it to the fire to light it.

"Someone going to wake those lazy shits up?" Kenny asks while he eats, crouched over the pan. "We're burning daylight here." 

"Ey fat ass!" Kyle calls, taking the cigarette from Stan. "Powderpuff! Get up!"

"Kenny's eating your breakfast, Cartman," Stan says after this produces no response. Cartman grunts and peeks out from under a moose pelt. Kyle grins at Stan and drags on the cigarette before passing it back. 

"Get away from my breakfast, fucker!" Cartman says. Butters peeks out, observing the scene at the campfire from over Cartman's shoulder. Cartman can hardly be called fat anymore, but he's still the biggest of their gang, and the most intimidating in emergency situations.

"Come make me," Kenny says, still eating.

"Why's it so fucking cold?" Cartman complains when he finally slips from beneath his coverings, scowling. 

"They're called seasons, idiot," Kyle says. "I guess we still have them. Sorta." 

"Geez louise," Butters says, and he brings one of the pelts to the fire, wrapping it around his shoulders. "I forgot how it feels to wake up all cold." 

"I guess years of sleeping with a big, sweaty pig will do that to a man," Kyle says. 

"Fuck off, Jew," Cartman says. "You're just jealous 'cause all you've got for warmth is two bony little scarecrows." 

Kyle has no retort. He reaches for the cigarette again, and Stan watches him drag on it.

"What?" Kyle says, frowning.

"Nothing." Stan gets up and starts cleaning up the camp. It's true that they're wasting daylight.

They head west, same as they've done every day since South Park got infected. There's a theory that the California border has reopened, and they've got no better ideas. Stan wants to go to Mexico, but Kyle says the heat's too dangerous and the situation down there is worse than it is up here. Stan dreams about finding an unspoiled beach, building a hut. He knows he's a fool and that they'd all be dead without Kyle, but he still thinks about the ocean, palm trees, a cold beer, like those commercials from a long time ago.

They don't talk much when they're walking. A few months back they ran up on a bigger gang of older men and everybody knew what would happen if they were spotted. They'd had to hide for days before the other gang moved camp, and they were pissing themselves with fear the whole time, literally. They have guns that they brought from home, but only Cartman and Kenny really know how to use them. Kyle wants to learn, but firing off shots for practice is too risky. Stan doesn't even like shooting coyotes. They have such sad faces, and he's reminded of his childhood dog every time they spot one. Coyote meat is better than snake, though.

At dusk they find an outcropping of rocks to shelter their camp and set down their packs. Kyle gets to work on the fire; he always does the fire. Stan and Kenny take guns and look for dinner while Cartman and Butters saw off the tops of cacti, looking for water. 

There are jackrabbits everywhere in this part of the desert, easy to spot but hard to shoot. Kenny manages two, and Stan carries them at an arm's length to try to keep the blood off his clothes. 

"This doesn't seem smart," he says. "Leaving a trail of blood that leads to our camp."

"So ask the rabbits to stop bleeding," Kenny says. 

Butters skins the rabbits. He still gets all the shitty jobs, and giving Cartman sexual pleasure is by far the shittiest, though he claims to like it. The noises he makes under the pelts seem to indicate that this is true. Stan always has to roll onto his stomach to hide the fact that his cock gets hard from the sound of Butters getting fucked. Kenny asked once if Stan thought Butters would be generous enough to do all of them, and Stan pretended to believe it was just a joke.

The rabbits are tasty, and the mood in the camp is jovial until the cold sets in. There's a debate about whether or not they should leave the fire burning overnight, and Kyle squelches the idea. Cartman goes to bed grumbling about Kyle being a stingy Jew, and Butters crawls under the pelts with him. Five minutes later they're at it. Kyle groans and announces that he's going for a walk. Stan gets a cigarette from Kenny and jogs over to join him.

"How many more of these have we got?" Kyle asks when Stan passes him the cigarette. 

"I don't know," Stan says. "I think Kenny found a whole carton. How many packs is that?"

"Twelve?" Kyle sighs. "I hate smoking," he says. 

"I know," Stan says. "But it's something to do." Mostly it helps with the hunger.

They don't go far, staying in sight of the camp. Stan can't hear Butters' cries or Cartman's grunts, but he's disturbingly aware that Kenny stayed behind to watch them.

"How can Kenny beat off to that?" Stan asks. 

"He's lost his humanity," Kyle says. He's joking, but Stan worries about that sometimes. Kenny has always been aloof. 

"What are we going to do if there are no girls in California?" Stan asks. 

"Girls?" Kyle gives Stan a look of disbelief. "You're thinking about girls?"

"I mean -- for the species. Not for me." 

"The species is fucked, Stan. And who would want to procreate, anyway? You want to bring a kid into this? Jesus." Kyle gets up and walks away in disgust. Stan follows sheepishly. He knows Kyle is right. He was only trying to force an overdue conversation out of him: how much longer are they going to wait before they give in to what Cartman and Butters have accepted?

At camp, Butters and Cartman have finished. They're still awake, audibly breathless under their coverings, kissing and muttering softly. Sometimes Stan thinks they might actually be in love or something. He gets into the double-wide sleeping bag that they made out of two regular sized ones, stitched together clumsily. It's coming apart in places. Kenny is already on his side, dozing, smelling like semen. Stan sleeps in the middle so that Kenny won't molest Kyle in his sleep, or consciously.

As soon as they're motionless, the cold closes over them. Kenny is warm against the curve of Stan's spine, turned away from him. Stan gathers Kyle to him, the blankets pulled up to their ears. Kyle's hair smells like the campfire, dried sweat, cigarette smoke, and something else. A prairie wind, Stan thinks, hugging Kyle closer. 

"Goodnight," Stan whispers, his lips moving against Kyle's curls. Kyle grunts and slips his cold hand under the back of Stan's shirt, laughing when he hisses.

"Quiet," Kenny says. 

"Fuck off," Kyle mutters. He pushes his leg between Stan's and leaves his hand under Stan's shirt, his thumb moving on Stan's skin until he shivers. 

This is what Stan lives for, the only part of his life that he likes. Kyle goes soft in his arms a little at a time, fighting sleep, wanting to stay alert. When he loses the battle his breath gets even and slow. Stan needs this so much: Kyle's stomach pushing against his, Kyle's leg warm and heavy between Stan's thighs, his hand curled into a loose fist under Stan's shirt. This is Stan's humanity: this warmth, this closeness, this boy.

*

A couple of days later they find a stream and decide to stay for more than one night. They're all tired, dragging. They need to tan some hides, dry some meat, restock supplies. Stan appreciates the break. At night, after dinner, he whittles animals out of dry wood. He makes a cat for Butters, and then, more carefully, a bird for Kyle.

"Cute," Kyle says when Stan gives it to him. He turns it over in his hand a few times. "I wish we would find a chicken," he says. "A wild desert chicken." 

"Or a bucket of KFC," Stan says. Cartman groans, overhearing this.

"Don't taunt me with those letters," he says. 

"I wonder how fat Cartman would have gotten if society hadn't collapsed," Kyle says. "Three hundred pounds? Four hundred?"

"And I wonder how Jewish Kyle would have gotten," Cartman says, looking upward and touching a fingertip to his chin. "Would he have been a lawyer? Or an accountant? I guess we'll never know, since now he's just coveting salt."

"Like you don't keep the food you find to yourself half the time!" Kyle says, actually turning pink at the back of his neck. 

"Not true!" Cartman says. "I share with Butters." 

Butters is sitting beside Cartman, using a rabbit hide and some string to try to repair Cartman's boots. He looks up at the sound of his name.

"We all know what you feed Butters," Kenny says. 

"I'm not ashamed that the closest thing left to a girl on this planet chose _me_ , gentlemen," Cartman says. "So don't even." 

"Hey, Eric," Butters says. "Don't call me a girl. That's bad luck." 

"I think it's more like you chose him," Kyle says. 

"Hey now!" Butters sits back on his knees, frowning. "I had a say in the matter."

"Butters has wanted my dick since back in the day," Cartman says, waving his hand through the air. 

"Eric," Butters says sharply. "Quit picking on me."

"I'm not-- what! Don't give me that look, I'm just stating a fact. You wanted my dick, Butters. Own it."

"I do own it," Butters says, and he sticks his tongue out. Kenny almost falls off the rock he's sitting on, laughing.

"Okay, psssh," Cartman says. "If owning something means you store it up your ass nightly." 

"Hey, c'mon," Stan says. 

"Maybe you won't be storing it up there tonight, you smart alec," Butters says. He throws Cartman's boot into his lap. "And maybe you can fix your own goddamn shoes!" 

"Stop having domestic drama," Kyle says. "It's getting dark, and I don't know if staying near a water source like this is really a good idea. We should pack up tomorrow." 

"Every time we figure something out that instills a tiny bit of comfort into our routine, Kyle rejects it," Cartman says. "I'm fucking tired. We're staying for one more day."

"I think one more day would be fine, dude," Stan says before Kyle can rip into Cartman. Kyle scoffs and gets back to cleaning his gun. 

"I guess you're out voted," Kenny says, smiling strangely. Butters is at the edge of the clearing, gathering kindling for the breakfast fire and muttering to himself about how nobody respects him.

Late that night, Stan wakes to the sound of Cartman and Butters having a whispered argument from inside their mound of blankets. His heart starts pounding as he imagines what he would do if Cartman tried to force Butters to have sex with him. He gets so tense that Kyle makes a soft noise of complaint in his sleep. Stan eases his grip on Kyle and pets his hair apologetically, rolling his eyes when he hears Butters giggling. A couple of minutes later the mound of hides is shifting and Butters is sighing Cartman's name: _Eric, oh, gosh, yeah, Eric_. 

Stan is getting hard, and he's glad that Kyle is a deep sleeper. Kenny sighs and rolls over, and Stan moves away when he feels that Kenny has been similarly affected by the noises from the other bed. 

"What?" Kenny says, rubbing his cock against the seat of Stan's pants again. "You don't want to help each other out?" He snickers and Stan elbows him away. 

"Leave me alone," Stan says. 

"Right, right," Kenny says, rolling away again. Stan hears Kenny's pants unzipping. "I forgot, you're saving yourself for the last woman on earth. Or Kyle." 

Stan's heart is pounding as he listens to Kenny stroking himself and Butters moaning while he takes Cartman's cock. Stan's dick is throbbing, pressed against Kyle, and he wants to move away but he's afraid Kyle will wake up. Eventually he realizes that Kyle is already awake. His throat is resting against Stan's bicep, pulse slamming. Cartman growls when he comes, and Kenny moans through his own release. 

Under the blankets, Kyle moves his arm very slowly. Stan is holding his breath by the time Kyle rests his palm against the bulge of his cock. They stay perfectly still until the other three are asleep, Butters and Cartman both snoring. Kyle moves his fingers just slightly, squeezing Stan. It's nowhere near enough pressure, but Stan is grateful he feels like he might cry.

"If you want me to," Kyle says, whispering.

"You know I do," Stan says. They're not looking at each other. Kyle's face is hidden against Stan's shoulder. Stan's chin is resting on top of Kyle's head.

Kyle unzips him slowly, not making a sound. Stan can only concentrate on breathing, trying to stay quiet. He closes his eyes when Kyle slides his hand into the front of his jeans.

"You're so hard," Kyle says, murmuring this into Stan's shirt, barely audible. Stan lets out his breath in a long, quiet sigh. Kyle is teasing him, maybe unintentionally, exploring Stan's dimensions with his fingertips.

"Please," Stan says. 

"Don't beg," Kyle says. "I'm doing this for me, anyway." 

The idea that Kyle could get pleasure from touching his dick makes Stan's whole body seem to throb. 

"I'm pulsing with need," Stan whispers, quoting a line from one of Cartman's mother's romance novels, which the four of them had taken turns reading aloud to each other one afternoon when they were kids, laughing almost too hard to speak. Butters had listened intently, a pillow hugged over his lap, until finally Cartman made him read, too. Stan will never forget his little voice trembling while he read about a woman who was 'pulsing with need.' They'd laughed so hard. Kyle laughs now, wrapping his fingers around Stan's dick. 

"I forgot you don't wear anything," Kyle says, meaning underwear.

"Too hard to find ones that fit," Stan says. He wants to fuck Kyle's hand, to grab his wrist and make him move faster.

"I'm gonna use my mouth," Kyle says, whispering this into Stan's ear. "So it won't make a mess on the bed." He starts to slide down Stan's body before Stan can respond, disappearing under the blankets, shifting between Stan's legs.

Stan does cry when Kyle sucks him, tears pouring down the sides of his face. He's quiet, holding Kyle's hair in his hands, guiding him. He only arches a little when he comes, but it seems to take Kyle by surprise and he chokes. When he emerges he's frowning and wiping come from his chin.

"Sorry," Stan says, drawing Kyle down to him, tears still coming. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you crying?" Kyle asks. He dumps himself onto Stan's chest and dries his cheeks with his thumbs. "I'm the one who just choked on sperm." 

"You're not hard," Stan says, alarmed by this. Kyle shrugs.

"I was," he says. "I came. Whoops. Guess we made a mess after all." 

"You came from--" Stan shuts up when Kyle frowns. "That's awesome," Stan says, reverently. Maybe this means Kyle will want to kiss him, too. Stan leans up to try it, but Kenny turns toward them before he can touch his lips to Kyle's.

"That was beautiful, you guys," Kenny says. "I didn't even get a boner. It was too special." 

"Fucker!" Kyle says, shoving him. Cartman grunts in his sleep. Stan sighs and rolls Kyle over, away from Kenny. He can't remember the last time he had an orgasm, and whenever that was it definitely didn't approach the feeling of coming in Kyle's soft, wet mouth. He closes his eyes and pushes his face into Kyle's hair.

"Thank you," Stan says. Kenny laughs, and Stan kicks him. 

"I told you it wasn't for you," Kyle says. He palms Stan's ass, squeezing him gently. "But, you're welcome."

In the morning, only Kenny is up early, washing himself in the stream. Stan worms down further into the blankets and relishes the feeling of Kyle's surrendered sleepiness. He's making irritated and contented little noises, allowing Stan's hands to roam over him under the blankets. Stan tries for a kiss and Kyle wakes fully, looking confused. 

"Oh," Kyle says. He frowns, sitting up. "I overslept." 

"It's barely dawn," Stan says, pawing at him.

"I should do the fire," Kyle says. He's hard again; morning wood. He buttons his jeans over it on the way to the remains of last night's fire. Stan stays in the bed, admiring the way Kyle looks when he squats, arranging kindling. 

"Everything okay?" Stan asks when he joins Kyle at the fire, which is just beginning to smoke to life. 

"Of course," Kyle says. He shakes his head when Kenny comes over to them, carrying a small, wriggling fish. "Breakfast for one," Kyle says. "How'd you even catch that?"

"I guess I'm just more primal than you," Kenny says. "But, no, here. I want you guys to have this. For the show last night." 

"That wasn't a show," Kyle says. "You should get your own bed." 

"I'd freeze," Kenny says. 

"So go sleep with Cartman and Butters. I'm sure they'd let you join."

"No, we wouldn't!" Cartman says from inside the mound of blankets, apparently eavesdropping. 

"Stan and Kyle touched wieners," Kenny says, putting his foot against the mound. "You owe me a pair of socks. The good ones, the woolly ones." 

"Not without proof!" Cartman says, throwing the moose hide off of himself. Butters is naked, and he curls up against Cartman, still mostly asleep, moaning. Cartman arranges the hide over him again, tucking it around his skinny shoulders.

"What the hell kind of proof do you want?" Kenny says. "Just ask them." 

"Fuck your bet," Kyle says. "We're human, we have needs. Drop it."

Stan thought maybe it was about more than that. He cleans the fish in silence, feeling Kyle's eyes on him.

"We're only going to get a couple of bites out of this," Stan says as he removes tiny bones. 

"A couple of bites is better than nothing," Kyle says. Stan scoffs. 

"Shit," Kenny says. "Shit, fuck."

"What?" Stan looks up from the fish, his stomach dropping when he sees what Kenny is talking about. There's a caravan on the horizon, moving toward the stream. Two cars and a truck, four men with rifles in the truck bed. 

"Butters, get up," Kyle says, dousing the fire. "Cartman--"

"It's too late, Kyle," Kenny says. They'll never get away on foot, and there's no doubt that the drivers of the cars and the truck have spotted them. 

"Well, at least get dressed!" Kyle says, his voice breaking. He grabs for his gun, cocking it. Butters is still confused, mumbling tiredly as Cartman snaps at him and helps him pull on his clothes. Kyle's hands are shaking when he gives Stan his gun. 

"We could run," Stan says, his stomach twisting up with dread. 

"To where?" Kyle asks, and there's so much hopeless exhaustion in his eyes that Stan feels like his legs might give out.

"You were right, Kyle," Kenny says. "We shouldn't have stayed near the stream."

"Well, good for me for being right," Kyle says. His jaw is set, his eyes on the approaching vehicles. "I'll remember that when they're selling me into slavery."

"Stop," Stan says. "That's not -- stop." 

"What'll we do?" Butters asks as Kenny pushes a gun into his hands. "Eric? Kyle? What are gonna do?"

"Shh," Kyle says. "Just let me do the talking." 

"Ha!" Cartman says. "Yeah, right. I'll get us out of this, Butters, don't worry." 

"Keep your mouth shut, Cartman," Kenny says, hissing. The vehicles are close now, kicking up sand. Stan holds his gun across his chest, so afraid that he feels like he's watching this from the other side of the stream, helpless. 

The men in the back of the truck bed hop down, and most of the passengers exit the cars, the drivers staying in place. The gang doesn't seem that much older, maybe late twenties. They have an unwashed, dead-eyed look that makes Stan suspect they're all related. 

"Greetings," Kyle says, as if a UFO has just touched down. "We're just here waiting for the rest of our party. There's plenty of water for everyone, as you can see." 

"The rest of your party," the man out front says. He glances to the guy at his left, who is shirtless, his distended stomach hanging over the hem of his jeans. "They'll be back soon, I take it?"

"Yes," Kyle says. "But we can meet them ahead on the road if you'd like privacy. The stream's clean enough for bathing, and maybe for drinking. We boiled our water, just in case."

"Thanks for the tip," the man says. "But we're not after water. Tommy here saw you up here last night and said you were worth a look. I'd have to agree." He raised his gun. Everyone in his party had one and they all looked ready to use them. "We're not greedy," the man in front said. "We'll take that little blond one and you, red. Haven't see a fucking redhead in two years," he says, turning to his friend, the gun still trained on Kyle. 

"They're not going with you, asshole," Cartman says, cocking his rifle. "So back the fuck off."

"Guys, please," Stan says, not sure how to continue. "We're going to start firing on you if you try that, and maybe we'll all end up dead, but some of you will be dead, too--" 

"Or we could do this without shedding blood," the leader said. "The redhead and the little blond. That's not asking much." 

"Fuck you!" Cartman shouts, his voice breaking apart. "I'll kill every fucking one of you!" 

Most of the men laugh at that, but the leader just smiles. 

"Eric?" Butters said, shaking so badly that Stan was afraid he'd drop his gun. 

"I give the signal and the three of you we're not asking for are dead," the leader says. "Then we just take what we want. Or we could do this without bloodshed. Your choice." 

"Okay," Kyle says, beginning to lower his gun. "Okay."

"What -- no!" Stan says. 

"Stan," Kyle says. "We don't have a choice." He's moving very slowly, laying his gun down. Stan waits to see what Kyle's real plan is, and he's still waiting as Kyle walks toward the men, his hands lifted. Butters is crying. 

"Kyle!" Cartman shouts. "Get back here!"

"They'll kill us all, fat ass," Kyle says. His voice is weak, as if it's melting as he gets closer to the waiting men. "At least this way. At least--"

The man to the left of the leader grabs Kyle and walks him toward the truck with his hands behind his back. Stan is ready to shoot, his finger on the trigger. They'd drop him in half a second, would fire until his body was unrecognizably riddled with bullets. He thinks maybe he should shoot Kyle, maybe that's what Kyle wants, to be saved, for all of them to just die fighting. 

"Kyle's right, Eric," Butters says, squatting down to place his gun in the dirt. 

"No!" Cartman says. "Goddammit!" 

"I don't want them to hurt you," Butters says. On his knees, he grabs Cartman's legs and cries, wiping his face on Cartman's pants.

"Oh, hell yeah," the leader says. "Get over here, baby, we'll treat you alright." 

"I'll kill you," Cartman says, raising his gun to sight the leader's head. 

"Please, Eric, no!" Butters says. "There's too many of them! They'll kill you!"

Stan is staring at Kyle, watching as two men in the truck bed bind his hands with rope. Kyle has his head lowered. Stan is still waiting to see what Kyle's plan is, still waiting.

He's still waiting when the men drive away with Kyle, Butters, and all of their guns. He's still waiting when Cartman starts punching him for not doing anything, for letting that happen, still waiting when Cartman delivers a blow to his temple that knocks him out cold. 

*

They follow the tire tracks. Nobody speaks, and they don't stop for two days. Cartman sobs intermittently and Stan's head pounds until he feels like he'll go blind from the pain, but Kenny is the first one who stops. 

"We need rest," he says. 

"Fuck rest!" Cartman says. "Every second counts!" He's faltering in his steps, barely dragging himself along, carrying Butters' pack as well as his own. Stan has Kyle's hugged to his chest, the top unzipped so he can smell Kyle's clothes. It's like a shot of caffeine, something that keeps him moving. 

"We're no good to them if we kill ourselves getting there," Kenny says. "I don't think it's much further -- that guy must have been on patrol when he saw us by the stream. Let's just sleep for two hours. And we all need to eat." 

"Stan?" Cartman says. "What's your vote?"

It's dark, the tracks hard to see in the dim moonlight. Stan says nothing, but he sits down and buries his face in the top of Kyle's pack. Kyle has always carried the blanket, while Stan carries the sleeping bag. The blanket still smells like last night, like the first time they touched each other. 

"Looks like he votes to rest," Kenny says. He puts his pack down. "I'm not going to make a fire." He glances at Stan as if to suggest that this is some kind of memorial to Kyle, not having a fire. "We'll eat jerky. Good thing we made so much." 

"Good thing we made so much?" Cartman says, and Stan wonders if he'll have his go at Kenny now. Stan's face is covered with bruises, but he's not angry. He's glad Cartman hurt him, wants to hurt more. "There's nothing _good_ happening, Kenny, you piece of shit! We stayed at that stream drying fucking rabbit meat, and that's why they got taken!" 

It's the first time any of them have vocalized it: Kyle and Butters were taken. They are gone.

"Stop acting like a child," Kenny says. "You're lucky they didn't kill you back there, shouting like a spoiled fucking brat. This is the real world, Eric. Wake the fuck up. All we can do is try to get them back. Getting hysterical and beating up Stan isn't going to help them."

Kenny eats, and eventually Cartman does, too. Stan slumps over onto his side, balling up one of Kyle's shirts for a pillow. 

"At least drink some water," Kenny says, tugging on Stan's shoulder. "Man," he says when Stan sits up to gulp from his canteen. "You look like shit. Want a smoke?"

Stan nods, but he only wants the cigarette so he can tuck it into his pocket for Kyle. For later.

Kenny smokes, and Cartman sniffles and cries inside his pelts. At one point Kenny brings the moose pelt to Stan and drapes it over him. Stan isn't completely awake, but he can't really sleep. He closes his eyes and concocts fantasies about how Kyle and Butters might have gotten away, or how those men only want them for field labor. Or maybe something more delicate, since Butters and Kyle are small. Stan will only let himself imagine Kyle cleaning chimneys or slithering into a crawl space to set traps for rats. Things a small person could do. He holds Kyle's pack as if it's him, stroking it, nuzzling at it, pressing his lips to the dirty canvas. In the morning he forces himself to eat.

The tracks end two days later, at a significant settlement with its own water tower. It's surrounded by hills that form a natural wall to protect it from the weather and invading forces. They stay high in the hills, scoping the place out with a pair of old toy binoculars that Kyle had wisely thought to pack when they left home. The fence that surrounds the camp has barbed wire on it, but it looks shoddily made. There are men with guns guarding the wall from four towers that overlook the camp, and two guards out front at the main entrance. Stan uses his turn with the binoculars to hunt for Kyle's bright hair, but there's no sign of him or Butters.

"What do we do?" Stan asks. It's the first thing he's said in four days.

"Nothing yet," Kenny says. "We don't even have our guns. If they are going out alone on patrols of this area, we've going to have to figure out how to surprise one of them and steal his gun." 

"Yeah," Stan says, scoffing. "And what do we do when he runs back to tell them that there are gun thieves hiding in the hills?"

Kenny stares at him. "He doesn't run back, Stan," he says. "We kill him." 

"Duh," Cartman says. "But, Jesus, even if we get a thousand fucking guns, there's probably fifty guys living down there! What the hell good are guns when you're outnumbered like that?"

"Where was this thinking earlier?" Kenny says, giving him a look. "But I know, you're right, I'm just saying. Whatever plan we do come up with, we're going to need some real weapons. Stan, have you still got Kyle's knife?" 

"Yeah." He'd used it to clean that fish and tucked it into his belt when the convoy approached. 

"Good," Kenny says. "I've got my jackknife. We need to scout this area carefully and figure out the best place to make a camp. We're probably going to be here for a while." 

"Like how long?" Stan asks. 

"However long it takes us to figure out this camp's weaknesses," Kenny says. He turns to stare at it again. "Or maybe Kyle and Butters will break free somehow. One of us should always be watching the camp in case that happens. So they'll know we're here." 

"Of course they know we're here!" Cartman says. "Do they think we're too stupid to figure out how to follow goddamn tire tracks through the desert? They know we're here." He's scowling, his lip raised. "They know."

Days pass in watchful silence, and Stan is almost never able to sleep. He jerks awake when he does nod off, thinking that he's heard Kyle calling for him down in the valley. In reality, they see no signs that Kyle and Butters are in the camp until they've been watching it for almost a month. Stan still marks the days off carefully in his journal. It's almost Christmas. Hunting is nearly impossible without guns, but Kenny traps rabbits often enough to keep them from starving. They turn rocks over and eat bugs when they have to.

They see Butters, not Kyle, being escorted from one building to another. At first Stan thinks that Cartman is wrong, that it's wishful thinking, that he's begun to hallucinate, but eventually he realizes that it's true: the person under the scarf and robe is Butters. He's wearing flip flops despite the cold. He's not limping and doesn't look as if he's being starved, though it's hard to tell with the bulky robe covering him. When the man disappears with Butters into the second building they all watch for what will happen next almost without blinking, tense and breathing hard. Cartman and Kenny are waiting to see Butters again, but Stan is watching the first building, the one Butters emerged from. He's waiting to see Kyle.

Kyle doesn't come out, and when Butters is escorted back to the first building he's in the company of a different man. Stan's eyes get wet when he realizes that he's straining to hear Butters' little voice on the wind, but they're too far away, and Butters doesn't seem to be talking, anyway. 

Butters disappears back into the first building, a short house with a tin roof and shuttered windows. Cartman stays up all night watching those windows, and Stan watches Cartman, preparing himself to restrain him if necessary. Cartman is tensed as if he's about to leap up and go running down the hill, screaming Butters' name. 

"This is really good," Kenny says. "Now we know that Butters is alive, and where they keep him."

"Of course he's alive," Stan says, grabbing Kenny's arm. "They're both fucking alive! Why would they take them just to kill them?" 

"Fine!" Kenny says, shoving Stan off. "Keep your voice down, asshole. I know you're upset that we didn't see Kyle, but--"

"You don't know shit," Stan says. "Kyle probably -- he probably wouldn't do whatever they wanted him to do. He's resisting. He's not like Butters."

"What the hell does that mean?" Cartman asks. He lowers the binoculars and finally drags his eyes away from the dark little house. "No, you're right," he says before Stan can answer. "Butters isn't like Kyle. He's not stupid. He knows when to keep his mouth shut and go along with things. If he has to." Cartman raises the binoculars again, and Stan doesn't pursue the conversation, too tired and heartbroken to fight. He wants so badly to see Kyle, and he's also afraid to. If Kyle has bruises -- if he looks cold. Stan turns away from the camp and shuts his eyes.

"This is stupid," he says. "Just sitting here like this. We need a fucking plan." 

"I think I have one," Kenny says. "But it's risky." 

"Like any way we try to get into that fucking place isn't going to be risky?" Cartman says. "What's your plan?"

"I meant that it's risky to Kyle and Butters," Kenny says. "See that water tower?" He gestures; they look. "The only way I can think of to even the playing field is to poison it. That way the whole population of the camp gets sick and vulnerable. The problem is that Kyle and Butters would, too." 

"No," Stan says. "No, then. Not if you're going to hurt them."

"I really can't think of how else we'd do it, though," Kenny says. "It's been over a month and we haven't even managed to steal a gun."

"What would you poison it with?" Cartman asks. 

"There's spider milkweed all over these hills," Kenny says. "I'd have to do some tests, but I don't think the sap has a strong flavor, and it's milky white, so mixing it in with enough water wouldn't make the coloring look suspicious."

"Excuse me, what?" Stan says. "How the hell do you even know about this?"

"Almost everyone in my family is a natural chemist," Kenny says, and he grins strangely. "And I did a lot of reading about poisonous plants before we left home, you know, when we were foraging. I know it's kind of crazy, but if it worked they would all be sick within days. I don't think it would be deadly in a grown man, but I'm not sure. That's my only hesitation, because Kyle and Butters are small." 

"Dumbass!" Cartman says. "You could just warn them not to drink when you go in there and poison the tower." 

"I had a feeling you'd volunteer me for the mission," Kenny says, kicking dirt at Cartman. "That's fine, but warning them adds a whole other level of danger in terms of being able to pull this off or not, and it's going to take me a long time to collect enough poison to taint that whole water tower. I'm talking months. We really only have one shot at this."

"You should still try to warn them," Stan says. His heart is pumping hard, and he feels fully alive for the first time since Kyle and Butters were taken. "Kenny. Do you think this could really work?"

Kenny nodded. "If we do it right," he says. "And if we figure out a place and a system for storing the sap that I collect. Its potency will increase as it ferments, but it will be slow going." He sat back against the embankment where they'd been camping and let his hands drop between his knees. "Maybe we'll think of something better in the meantime."

They don't think of anything better, and they don't see Butters again. Stan watches the camp every day for a sign of Kyle, but there's nothing. They keep an eye on the camp in shifts while the other two use all the daylight hours to collect sap. Kenny finds a cave where they store the sap they'd collected inside Butters' empty pack, which they've lined with a cut away section of their tarp to keep the fabric from absorbing the sap. Once the pack is full, Kenny thinks it will be enough to poison the water tank. After four months of working they've barely filled a quarter of the pack.

"Some of it must be evaporating," Kenny says. 

Stan feels like everything is.

Then, finally, on a day so hot that Stan can't see straight for the heat waves that are rising up from the rooftops below, Kyle emerges from the same house that they once saw Butters enter. Stan swallows an agonized cry of relief, putting his hand over his mouth. He grabs for the binoculars, afraid that once he brings them to his eyes he'll realize that it was only an illusion brought on by heatstroke. But it's real, it's Kyle, walking alone from the house with a bucket tucked under his arm. He's wearing a shift that Stan takes for a burlap sack at first, though upon closer examination it appears to be a very plain dress, or just an overlong shirt. His curls are long and wild, piled up on top of his head with a clip. He's wearing flip flops, looking pissed off, bruises fading on his arm. Stan is up and halfway over the hill before a guy follows Kyle out into the yard and Stan remembers what he's doing, where he is. He ducks down before someone can spot him from below. His heart is beating so hard that the he can see his bangs trembling in front of his face. Stan's hair has gotten long, too. Kyle used to cut it.

Stan recognizes the guy who followed Kyle out as the one who spoke during the confrontation at the stream. He's arguing with Kyle, holding his arm, not taking care to avoid the bruised spots. His fly is open.

"Kyle," Stan says, very quietly, his stomach pitching. He jerks forward and throws up, mostly water, never relinquishing the binoculars, letting vomit slide down his chin. Kyle doesn't seem afraid of the man, who follows Kyle across the yard and zips up his pants while Kyle dumps out the contents of the bucket, clear liquid with suds. Stan wants Kyle to look up at the hills, to see his little yellow binoculars from a hundred yards away, the same ones they used when they played war games as kids. He wants Kyle to know that he's been here every day, tortured and sustained by the thought of him down there.

The man pushes Kyle back toward the house, and Stan catches a brief glimpse of Butters stepping back into the shadows as Kyle reenters, the bucket swinging in his hand. 

"Wait," Stan says, his voice cracking. The man shuts the door and locks it with a key. He stuffs the key into his pocket and walks away, his hands in fists, headed for what they've determined is a kind of mess hall. They've figured out the purpose that most of the buildings in the camp serve, and they don't talk about the one in the middle, where Butters and now Kyle seem to be staying. Men come and go throughout the day, and there's always a guard posted outside at night. The man who seems to be the leader is the most frequent visitor and sometimes spends the whole night there. 

"You saw Kyle, didn't you?" Kenny says when he returns with Cartman, reeking of sap. Stan nods, sort of laughing and crying at the same time. He's been like this for hours, delirious from heat and happiness and horror. Kenny squats down and helps him drink from a canteen of water, then slaps him. "What the hell are you doing in the sun?" he asks, and he drags Stan under the tarp they use as a shelter, low to the ground and covered with milkweed branches. 

"Did you see Butters?" Cartman asks, crawling in with him. 

"Yes," Stan says. He closes his eyes and smiles crazily, feeling his sunburn start to rise on his skin, making him feel like he's made of dough. "Just a glimpse. He seemed okay. They seemed okay."

Kyle can still walk. Stan had been worried about that. He starts crying more quietly, and Cartman lies down beside him with an exhausted huff.

"We're not even halfway done," Cartman says, referring to the sap collection. 

"I feel like I could walk in there right now and kill all of them with my bare hands," Stan says.

"I feel like that every fucking day," Cartman says. "So what? We can't."

Stan starts collecting sap at night, too. He sees men from the camp out patrolling in the pick up truck sometimes, but never comes close to an opportunity to steal a gun. More often he just sees coyotes, their eyes glowing in the distance as they slink away.

When the weather starts cooling off their sap collection is a little more than halfway finished. Kenny has taken to guarding it at night, just in case an animal tries to harass it. He comes back one morning with a gun and announces that they need to make a move on the water tower soon, even though they haven't collected as much sap as he'd like to. 

"Why?" Stan asks, still half-asleep. Cartman had the night watch, and he's drowsy, too, yawning. 

"Because," Kenny says, placing the gun down. He's got blood under his fingernails. "A guy's missing now. They're gonna find the body and start looking for who killed him. I got his truck." Kenny says. He grins and holds up a key on a silver ring. "Hid it pretty well, I think. Finding it again will be another story." He looks back and forth between Cartman and Stan. "How about some breakfast for the bread winner, bitches?" he says, and Stan won't talk to him for the rest of the day, because that must be how they talk to Kyle and Butters down there.

That night they start talking about how they'll enter the camp with the sap. Kenny theorizes that since the oldest sap has been been fermenting for over six months the poison will be dense enough to affect the water supply. 

"Once I get in, I'm not going to risk trying to get back out," he says. "I'll get the poison into the water somehow, then I'm going to lay low for two days. That's when you guys should enter with the gun, but only if you've seen signs over the past few days that people in the camp are getting sick."

"What if they aren't?" Stan asks. "And what about Kyle and Butters?"

"Kyle and Butters seem to get a delivery of supplies every morning from that guy who kinda prances when he walks," Kenny says. "I've never seen any indication that their water supply is replenished during the day, and there's no way that shack has internal plumbing. If their water ration is what it appears to be from what we can see getting delivered, they should be okay. The other guys are out in the sun, working -- they'll be drinking more water."

"It's like you're smart or something," Cartman says, looking distressed. Kenny glares at him.

"Forgive me if I've had nothing else to think about for the past seven months," Kenny says. "You guys have your sexual reunion fantasies to occupy your thoughts, but I--" 

Stan is on him before he can get another word out, knocking him backward into the dirt. He stops short of punching Kenny in the face and just pulls him up by the sleeves of his shirt before slamming him back down. 

"Don't you fucking say that!" Stan says. "Like we're no better than them! You fuck! I would never -- we would never--"

"Are you fucking high?" Kenny regains his bearings and rolls on top of Stan, snarling. "That's not what I meant, Jesus!" 

Cartman walks over to pull Kenny off of Stan. Stan expects him to blow up, too, but he doesn't say anything, just shoves Kenny away and heads for the tarp.

They spend a few more days going over the plan before putting it in action. Stan has begun to have almost nightly dreams that he sees Kyle from the window of the little house, though the shutters have never opened. In Stan's dreams, Kyle throws them open and searches the hills for any sign of him. Sometimes Kyle is crying, and sometimes he looks angry. Sometimes he's naked. Once he was covered in blood, but mostly he looks the way Stan remembers him: skinny and tired with dirt smeared on his cheeks.

Occasionally the camp will send out a caravan that returns with supplies, and they pick a night when the caravan has just returned to try to poison the water tower. One of the regular staples of the camp's diet is kegs of beer, and they all get together to drink it on the nights the supplies are replenished. They've heard music coming from the mess hall on those nights, singing and drums. The sound of it makes Stan ill, but it's a perfect opportunity to try to get Kenny through the fence. It has three weak points that they've been able to identify with the binoculars, only one of which is big enough to get the pack full of sap through. 

"If I'm killed, I think you should surrender to them," Kenny says as Stan and Cartman are helping him strap the pack on, making sure that it's secure. 

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Cartman says. "Surrender?" 

"They'll search the hills for you anyway, if I'm found," Kenny says. "And you have a better chance of escaping from within, the four of you, rather than breaking them out after they're on to you."

"Let's not think about that," Stan says, though suddenly he wants to weep for not having surrendered earlier. He could have been on the inside with Kyle the whole time, watching over him, but he knows he would have had to watch other things, too. "Let's just concentrate on getting this right." 

They camouflage Kenny as best they can, smearing dirt in his face and hair and putting dry milkweed stalks on the pack. The three of them crouch at the edge of their camp once he's ready, watching the activity below. There's no singing tonight, but most of the men have convened in the mess hall, and only three guards are at their posts: the two out front and one in the tower at the west corner.

"I was infected, you know," Kenny says, staring at the camp. "I wasn't a virgin." 

"What?" Stan says. He wants to push Kenny over; it's not something to joke or get metaphorical about. Kenny should know. It killed his father like it killed Stan's, in the most debasing way possible, turning him into a mindless monster.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Cartman says. "You're immune?"

"No," Kenny says. "I changed."

"Oh, and then you changed back?" Cartman scoffs. "Or have you been a fucking zombie all this time? Kenny, we hardly knew ye. Hey, no, it explains a lot." 

"Forget it," Kenny says. He turns to them. "Just don't be too sad if something happens to me." 

"C'mon," Stan says. "Don't—"

"No, I mean it," Kenny says. "It's a waste." He grabs them both, holding Cartman's shoulder in one hand, Stan's in the other. "You guys are great," he says. "But I really miss women." 

"There might be women in California," Stan says, and as soon as he hears it he knows it's the dumbest thing he's ever said.

"Don't die," Cartman says, shrugging Kenny's hand off of his shoulder. "You're the best shot."

"I'll remember you said that," Kenny says, and he starts to back away. "I always remember."

"Was he high?" Cartman asks when Kenny is out of earshot, skittering down the hillside in the dark. 

"On what?" Stan asks.

"I don't know. Poison?"

"Let's hope not."

They watch in tense silence as Kenny makes it through the fence, scales the water tower in the darkness and empties the pack into it. He's much more spry on the way back down from the tower, and he hides the empty pack in a junkyard-type area before finding a place to hide himself. He seems to be in the clear when the guard on the tower starts ringing his bell. 

Stan doesn't watch the rest, but Cartman does. There's shouting, a gunshot, and Stan only turns back toward the camp when Cartman shakes him.

"They're bringing him," Cartman says, and his eyes are huge when Stan blinks enough of the moisture out of his own to see clearly. "They're bringing – bringing him to Kyle and Butters' house." 

Stan turns then, grabbing handfuls of dirt and pebbles at the top of the hill, feeling grit cut into the soft tissue under his fingernails. Butters' scream echoes through the valley, and Stan feels it in his stomach like a razor he swallowed. If Kyle screams, sobs, anything, Stan doesn't hear it. 

The men in the camp hang Kenny's body from the front gate like a Halloween decoration.

The presence of Kenny's corpse is the hardest thing about entering the camp two days later, after they've watched men dropping in mid-step and throwing up their guts. The men didn't find the pack, so there was no suspicion about the water supply being tainted. The redness never recedes from Cartman's eyes, and Stan thinks his must look the same, because they're both obsessing over the same unvocalized thought: they might open the door of the house in the middle of the compound and find Kyle and Butters dead inside, poisoned. 

Cartman shoots anybody who isn't dead on the way into the camp; there aren't many. The sun has roasted the ones who collapsed where they stood, but Stan is still on guard as they make their way toward the house in the middle. They shot Kenny down upon entering and left his body propped against the fence near the front entrance, unrecognizably bloated and artificially warm. If they can find shovels they'll bury him. 

"Don't," Stan says when they're at the door of the cabin. They're both panting, and Stan is trying to tell Cartman not to fear the worst or hope for the best. 

"I don't want to do this anymore if they're dead," Cartman says, and Stan knows what he means.

"I know," Stan says, agreeing that some sort of suicide pact may very well be their next course of action. He tries the doorknob and it opens, unlocked.

Stepping inside, the smell hits him before his eyes adjust. It's not death, exactly, but it's not life. It's something akin to a public restroom and a candy shop, like melting sugar and human waste. There are two women on the bed, and they sit up listlessly as blistering light fills the dark little room. The blond one lays eyes on them first, and it's Butters, crimped blond hair hanging down to his chin and stuck to his cheeks, the white lingerie he's wearing almost entirely translucent from his sweat. Kyle sits up more slowly, not as if he's struggling but like he doesn't particularly care to see who's entered. His expression barely changes when his eyes meet Stan's, but he starts blinking rapidly. His hair is braided into two short pigtails, curls escaping in sweaty tendrils, and his outfit is more like a proper dress than Butters', tight and red. They both look almost disturbingly well fed, curvy and soft, and they seem to have gone to bed with their makeup still on. Kyle's eyes are lined in black; Butters' lips are shining, an unnatural pink. 

"Eric," Butters says, and Cartman cries out wordlessly, rushing forward. "I knew you'd come," Butters says when they fall together, both of them collapsing to their knees near the bed. "I told Kyle – I knew you'd come." 

Kyle gets off the bed with a kind of feline grace that makes Stan shudder. He watches as Kyle goes to a bureau covered in makeup and scattered playing cards. Kyle fishes through the junk until he finds a pack of cigarettes. 

"I wasn't sure what to think when they brought Kenny in here," he says. He sticks a cigarette in his mouth and lights it. Everything about the way he's moving is wrong, careful, fake, his back slightly arched and his ass very obvious in the clinging dress. Stan wants to go to him, but he can't move except to put his back to the wall near the door so that no one can sneak up behind him.

"I knew you would come!" Butters keeps saying it, cupping Cartman's wet face in his hands. Cartman is just blubbering, barely getting Butters' name out, kissing his cheeks. Kyle regards himself in the dingy mirror over the bureau, smoking. 

"Kyle," Stan says, not sure why he's not crying, not even sure what's happening. "Kenny's dead," he says, trying to break through to him.

"Yes, we were informed," Kyle says. "Shown, actually." He tips his head back and blows smoke. "I'm sorry it reeks in here, this is worse than usual. How did you two get in?" He turns toward Stan, pivoting on one heel and tucking his other foot behind his ankle. He's barefoot.

"We poisoned them," Stan says. "The water -- you and Butters haven't been sick, have you?"

"A little," Kyle says. He walks toward Stan. There's something soft and bright bleeding into his eyes, but it might just be the sunlight as he approaches the door. Cartman and Butters are kissing on the other side of the bed, sniffling and whispering to each other. "I thought the water smelled funny," Kyle says when he's standing just a foot away from Stan. The way the makeup on his left eye is smeared is making Stan sick to his stomach; it's worse than the smell. 

"Here," Stan says, going for his canteen. For a moment he thinks he's started crying, but it's just sweat pouring down his face. He passes Kyle the canteen and watches him drink. "We should go," Stan says. "Some of them are still alive." 

"We've got to raid the place first," Kyle says, and then he's sort of bouncing onto Stan, sucking in his breath as if in surprise, like someone has pushed him forward. Stan can't believe how soft and humid Kyle feels, how different.

"We were there the whole time," Stan says, holding him tighter when he tries to squirm free. "I'm sorry it took so long. We had to collect the poison--"

There's a scraping footstep from outside the house, and they all go stiff. Cartman bounds up from the floor and points the gun at the doorway. Butters says on the ground, hiding behind Cartman's legs. 

"Lyla," someone moans, and he falls through the doorway like an infected man or a drunk, landing hard on one knee. It's the man Stan saw in the yard with Kyle months ago, the leader who spoke to them at the stream. 

"Wait!" Stan says when Cartman cocks the gun. Stan takes Kyle's knife from his belt and holds it out to him. "Do you want -- to?" Stan asks, pretty sure he's doing the wrong thing. He's just thought about this moment so often, how he would let Kyle kill this man. 

"Oh," Kyle says. He stares at the knife, then looks at the man, who is crawling toward him, probably already dying, weakly grasping at Kyle's ankles. Kyle steps away from him daintily, tip-toeing. "No, you do it," he says to Stan. 

"Wha -- are you sure?"

"Uh-huh," Kyle says. He's still watching the man, who continues to grope for Kyle helplessly, spit foaming at the corners of his mouth. "I always imagined you doing it." 

Stan hesitates. He's never killed anyone. The man looks surprisingly normal up close, dirty and sick but clean-shaven. He can't be more than thirty. 

"Fuck this," Cartman says, and he shoots the man himself, blowing his back apart. Stan stumbles away from the corpse and Kyle catches him.

"Cartman, goddammit," Kyle says. He takes his knife from Stan and goes to the bureau for a cotton drawstring bag. Stan watches him put the knife and some various cosmetics into the bag while Cartman checks the doorway, his foot braced on the dead man's ass.

"We need to get out of here," Stan says as Kyle packs other things from the bureau: lacy undergarments, ballet slippers, knee high socks. He must be thinking of trading them when they get to California. He's still got a lit cigarette pinched between his lips. 

"There are cars," Kyle says. "I can get you the keys. In fact -- Butters, go through his pockets." 

"I don't want to touch him," Butters says. He's crying, pressed to the back wall with his fists over his mouth. 

"Fine," Kyle says. He groans and goes to the man's body, rifling through his back pockets. He finds several keys and a half empty pack of cigarettes, which he adds to his bag. Stan expects Kyle to at least spit on the guy, or linger for a long look at his ruined body, but he grabs a pair of flip flops that are resting beside the door and steps over the corpse as if it's a wet umbrella. Stan follows him out, and the sunlight makes him dizzy. He has to steady himself on Kyle's shoulder as he slides the flip flops on. 

"Here," Cartman says when he exits, handing Stan the gun. He's carrying Butters, who has his face hidden against Cartman's neck, his legs wrapped around his waist.

"Can't he walk?" Stan asks, worried that they've broken his legs.

"He's freaked out," Cartman says sharply. "His legs are shaking." He hoists Butters up a little higher and looks at Kyle. "Where are the cars?"

A few hours later they're far from the camp and set up better than they've been since they left South Park, except that they have a dead body and two immeasurably traumatized people in their caravan. They took two vehicles, a Jeep and a van, and packed them full of as much food, gas canisters, and other supplies that they could fit. Kyle rides with Stan in the Jeep, one of Stan's flannel shirts buttoned over the red dress. The shirt is a relic from South Park, from middle school, and it's too small for Kyle now, tight across his chest. The volume of the highway wind makes conversation impossible. Stan wants to touch Kyle, just on the shoulder, anywhere, but he doesn't dare. Kyle mostly stares out the window at the desert.

They stop in a forested area to dig Kenny's grave at sundown. Cartman and Stan do the work with two shovels they stole from the supply closet at the camp. Butters cuts his hair off with Kenny's jack knife and changes into a pair of Cartman's pants, one of Cartman's old t-shirts hanging loosely on him even with the weight he's gained. When Stan looks up from his grave digging, Kyle still has his pigtails. He's using his knife not on his hair but on his pants, systematically slicing every pair of them until the legs are so short that the pockets hang down underneath. He flings off the red dress and throws it into some bushes, replacing it with Stan's flannel and a pair of his jeans that are now tiny shorts. 

"Uh," Cartman says when he pauses to see what Stan has stopped digging to stare at: Kyle using the Jeep's side view mirror to apply lipstick. "Is he okay?"

"What the hell do you think?" Stan says. "Shut up. Keep digging."

Stan has spent the last seven months worrying about Kyle, and it's odd to do so with Kyle in plain sight. He's setting up the wood and kindling for a campfire near the grave, squatting down to work in ballet slippers. They have canned food from their raid of the camp: beans, corn, even meat. Stan can't remember the last time he ate anything but jack rabbit and cactus fruit.

When they're too exhausted to dig anymore they lower Kenny in, wrapped in their old tarp. Butters cries at the graveside while they shovel the dirt back in. Kyle comes over to watch in silence, his hands stuffed into his back pockets. 

"Well," Cartman says when it's done, Stan and Cartman covered in mud, their clothes ruined. "Is someone gonna -- say something?" Butters is erecting a modest tombstone from some rocks that he found. He's also gathered wildflowers.

"Kenny died saving us," Stan says when no one else speaks. "All of us. Me and Cartman -- if -- without you guys." Stan leaves it at that, swallowing heavily. 

"He was a good shot," Cartman says, and Butters sobs. 

They made their camp almost a mile from the a creek they'd driven across, not willing to make that mistake again. When Kenny's pathetic memorial is complete they all walk to the water together in the darkness, and Stan and Cartman clean off as best they can. Kyle and Butters sit watching them, Butters sniffling. Stan hasn't even felt the loss of Kenny yet. He's still working on what Kyle has lost. It's no less than Stan expected, but he doesn't know what to do now. Will they sleep together? Does Kyle want someone to ask about the lipstick, the shorts?

"These are a lost cause," Kyle says, walking to the edge of the water to poke at Stan's mud-caked clothes. "Here." He hands Stan a towel and observes his naked body as he dries himself. 

"We're so well stocked now," Stan says, referring to the towel, which is rough but useful, the kind of thing they didn't think to take from home. Kyle smiles vaguely and Stan knows he's said the wrong thing. "Can we--" He turns to look at Cartman and Butters, who are further downstream. "You can talk to me," Stan says. 

Kyle sits on a nearby rock, crosses his legs and observes his wrist, his foot bouncing. 

"They hurt you," Stan says, his voice breaking. "I know." 

"That's--" Kyle says. He shakes his head. "I'm gonna make a feast for dinner," he says. "You look so skinny. Even Cartman."

"Kyle."

"They fed us like they were planning to make _pâté_ out of our livers," Kyle says. He leans back, bracing his palms on the rock. "As you can see. I guess I should be glad they didn't have estrogen pills or whatnot. Oh, here. Poor Stan. I brought some clean clothes, too."

Stan cries while Kyle helps him dress. They used to be the same height, but Stan has gotten a little taller since they've been apart. He does feel skinny, so empty; he needs food. 

"Shh," Kyle says, kissing his cheek. "I know." He leaves a lipstick print, bright red. Stan hates the smell of that stuff. It reminds him of his dead Aunt Flo and crusty old elementary school teachers. He never knew a girl his own age who wore it. He is grateful that Kyle has washed off the eye makeup and hasn't reapplied any. 

For dinner they have corned hash and pickled peaches, plus some yellow rice. Stan is pretty sure that he'll throw up later from the sudden influx of food products, but he doesn't care. There's so much comfort in the taste of Kyle's cooking and in having him close while they eat, their thighs touching on the cooler they're seated on. For a moment the braids just seem cute. 

"Are we still going to California?" Butters asks after they've cleaned their plates. Kyle has moved to sit on the ground between Stan's legs. He's hugging Stan's right leg against him, his cheek resting on Stan's knee. Cartman is looking at Kyle like he's waiting for him to spring up and kill them all. 

"Of course we're still going," Cartman says. "Why wouldn't we?"

"I dunno," Butters says, mumbling. 

"How long were we in there?" Kyle asks. "We lost track." 

"A little over seven months," Stan says. 

"Oh," Kyle says. 

"That's all?" Butters says, looking horrified.

Cartman and Butters go to sleep in the van while Stan and Kyle make a cramped bed in the back of the Jeep. Stan isn't sure what to do, where to put his hands or if he should just offer to sleep up front in the driver's seat, but Kyle pulls him down into the back of the Jeep as soon as they've arranged the bedding. 

"Just lay on me," Kyle says, cradling Stan against his chest. "Like a paperweight. I feel like I'll blow away. Ironically." 

"You look good," Stan says. "I mean." Everything is the wrong thing to say. "I was so worried." 

"We worried, too," Kyle says. For a while they just lie there, Kyle stroking Stan's hair. 

"That guy called you -- uh." Stan doesn't want to repeat it.

"He had a lot of names for me," Kyle says. "Mostly 'girl,' though. He kept a lot of them away from me, you know, because he was a lunatic and he thought I was his wife or something." 

"Kyle." Stan pinches his eyes shut so tightly that it hurts, his face pressed to Kyle's neck. 

"Until I did something to piss him off," Kyle says. "Then, you know. He would sit there, though, like, watching? Mostly to make sure they didn't take the condom off, I guess. And when the randoms were done they would thank him. Thank him, like, and shake his hand. Like I was some hammer they'd borrowed. Oh -- shit." Stan is crying so hard that the Jeep is bouncing on its axles. "Sorry, fuck, I promised -- I thought, if I ever see Stan again, he doesn't have to hear this. It sounds so bizarre, anyway, out loud. I'm just used to telling you everything."

"You can tell me, you can, I can handle it." 

"I don't want to be something you have to handle. No, let's just be partners again. I know I'm not -- the same, and I'm sorry, but--"

" _Kyle_." Stan rolls onto his side so he can squeeze Kyle into his arms, against his chest. Kyle reciprocates, curling up around him. 

"Butters was better at compartmentalizing," Kyle says. "He's a trooper."

"He just cries like a baby," Stan says, though he's doing the same, barely able to speak. 

"That's a better defense mechanism than you'd expect," Kyle says. "Or so it seems. Who knows? Stan, the whole world ended. And part of us knew this would happen." 

"I wish I had been with you," Stan says. 

"Oh, Jesus, no," Kyle says, clawing at his back, taking a handful of his shirt. "I need you like this, intact." 

"I'm not intact! Fuck, Kyle, look at me. You're the one who's calm."

"Ah." Kyle sighs. "Don't be stupid."

In the morning, Stan wakes up alone in the back of the Jeep, everything aching. The position he slept in was more painful than sleeping on the ground, but he does like the feeling of being elevated, slightly safer. He sits up and scans the camp for Kyle. He's making breakfast over a decent-sized fire; Stan smells potatoes. They didn't take many perishable things, but they indulged in a few. They're all in need of a little frivolity. 

Kyle apparently more than anyone: he's dressed in the same outfit he wore the day before, but he's added a lavender headband with a leathery-looking flower stylishly situated on the left side. His braids are neater; his hair looks wet.

"You didn't go to the creek alone, did you?" Stan asks.

"God, no!" Kyle says, boggling at him. "Why would you think that?"

"Your hair -- oh." Up close, Stan sees that it's not wet, just slick with some kind of product. There's faint, sparkly eyeshadow on his lids, gloss on his lips. 

"I don't know why, but they ended up feeling like armor at some point," Kyle says, stirring hash browns. "Like they were protecting my boy self from being -- affected." 

It takes Stan a moment to realize that he's talking about the braids, and even longer to acknowledge that Kyle seems to now have a concept of his boy self versus, presumably, his girl self. Stan isn't sure which of them is sitting beside him with a plate of potatoes. 

"Look what I saved," Kyle says, digging around in the pocket of his too-tight shorts. It's the little pouch of salt, nearly empty. "Want the last of it?" he asks. 

"No," Stan says. "You have it." 

"I'll take it if you don't want it," Cartman says. 

"You can have half," Kyle says, and he crosses to Cartman, bending at the waist to sprinkle two pinches of salt onto his potatoes. Cartman stares at Kyle, chewing slowly, still looking suspicious. 

"I sure slept good last night," Butters says. "I even had a dream about Kenny."

"Yeah?" Stan says. "What happened in the dream?"

"He told me he'd meet us in California," Butters says. "He said he'd found a girlfriend, too, and that he'd bring her." 

The subject of girls was already sensitive, but now it's like toxic gas that fogs the air. Butters shuts up and busies himself with eating. Kyle returns to Stan's side. 

"I dreamed about Kenny, too," Kyle says. 

"Yeah?" Stan says again, more cautiously now. 

"He was a video game character and we were playing as him," Kyle says. "He kept dying, and then I'd remember that he wasn't _really_ dead." 

"Well, he is really dead," Cartman says. "And I'm not going through any shit like that again. The next guys who run up on us are getting dropped. I don't care if I have to go down with them." 

"Aren't you glad to be alive?" Stan says. "Kenny didn't die for nothing." He wants to say that Kyle and Butters didn't go through hell for nothing, either, that it was a sacrifice they made for the others' lives, but that's understood. At least, he hopes it is. He's certainly not going to try to vocalize it yet.

"I'm glad to be alive, sure," Cartman says. "But I'm not going through that again."

"Oh, Eric," Butters says. He puts his head on Cartman's shoulder. 

"We've got the cars now," Kyle says. "Relax."

It's true that the cars are life-changing, but so much has already changed, and Stan doesn't feel relieved or safe. Kyle puts on make-up every day and sleeps in girlie underwear and Stan's flannel. He doesn't talk about life at the camp again. Stan wants to ask but doesn't want to know. One evening Kyle and Butters are washing together in yet another creek while Cartman and Stan gather firewood nearby, and Stan takes the opportunity to speak to Cartman alone.

"We've got to be getting near the border," Stan says. "Any day now."

"Yep," Cartman says. He's been quieter ever since Butters and Kyle were taken, and the return of Butters hasn't renewed his exuberance. 

"Does he talk about it?" Stan asks, keeping his voice very low. "Butters? About what happened?"

Cartman looks up from the twigs he's sifting through, and at first Stan thinks he's about to get walloped. Cartman turns to look at the creek, where Butters is helping Kyle redo his braids. They both have soft chests now, and little rolls on their stomachs when they sit. 

"He talks about it, yeah," Cartman says. "That's all we fuckin' talk about." 

"Really." Stan wants to ask, and even Cartman isn't dense enough not to see it. He snaps a twig in half and pitches one end into the dirt. 

"What the hell do you want me to say?" Cartman asks. "They were whores." 

"No," Stan says. "Whores get compensated. They were kidnapped -- they were victims."

"You know what I fucking mean! To those assholes who we killed, they were whores. You knew that before we found them in those -- clothes." He makes a face, glancing at the creek. "Maybe when we get to California he'll stop wearing make-up."

"I don't care if he wears make-up. He can wear it for the rest of his life. Fine with me." Stan hates the make-up, hates the smell of it, the way it makes Kyle look like something half-dead, reanimated by a mortician's kit for a public viewing, but something is holding him together, and Stan's not about to start pulling cards from the trembling tower.

"It's fucking freaky," Cartman says. "And those shorts." 

"You're not trying to fuck Butters, are you?" Stan asks. 

"No," Cartman says. "I don't think he likes that anymore. Fuck!" He curses loud enough to get Kyle and Butters' attention. Stan waves to let them know things are okay. "I want to kill them all again," Cartman says. "I should have really taken the time to appreciate it." 

"We didn't have the time," Stan says. "Forget it -- shut up. They're coming." 

In bed that night, Kyle is affectionate in an abstract way. This has been happening increasingly, and Stan is afraid to move when it does. Tonight, Kyle straddles Stan's hips and slowly unbuttons the flannel shirt. He pushes Stan's t-shirt up so that it's bunched under his chin and lies down, pressing their bare chests together. Kyle sighs like he's just put soothing ointment on a burn. 

"You want to wash this tomorrow?" Stan asks, touching the flannel. 

"Nn, no," Kyle says. "Not yet. It smells like you."

"I smell like me," Stan says, and Kyle laughs. "And you can sniff me whenever you want." 

"But I like wearing this smell," Kyle says. "I like it on my skin. Like this," he says, and moves just a little, so Stan can feel the warm pressure of Kyle against his nipples. It's enough friction to make his cock jump. 

"Sorry," Stan says, in case Kyle felt that.

"You're such a good man," Kyle says. "You're a man now, aren't you?"

"I don't think so," Stan says, his voice starting to tremble.

"I didn't mean like _that_." Kyle sits up again. He looks especially crazy in the moonlight, his eyelids heavy, the pigtails stiff and in need of a wash, too. "I could make you a man like that, though. If you could get hard for me." 

"Shh," Stan says, gathering him back down. "I don't need -- I mean -- of course I could get hard for you."

Kyle wiggles against him and Stan gasps. "That's like, partial," Kyle says. He hides his face against Stan's neck. "It's too much to have to think about – I know. It's okay.” 

"I just want to do whatever you want," Stan says. He pushes his hands up under the flannel and rubs his fingertips over Kyle's back. Kyle shivers, then flinches.

"Not like that," he says, and Stan stops touching him. He winds his arms around Kyle's neck and just holds him. "Yeah, better," Kyle says, his voice very small.

The following morning, Stan wakes up to the sounds of shots being fired. He rolls out of the Jeep in a panic, casting around desperately for Kyle, confused when he sees Butters sitting calmly by the fire, drinking from a coffee mug. 

"I told them I should wake you up first," Butters says. "It's so mean!" 

Cartman and Kyle are on the edge of camp, Kyle holding the shot gun and Cartman standing behind him, showing him how to aim it. Kyle has Stan's flannel unbuttoned over a clinging undershirt, and Stan is surprised that Cartman is willing to teach Kyle how to shoot while he's wearing those booty shorts. There are some empty cans from the previous night's dinner set up on a log. Kyle clips one with his next shot and cheers. 

"I guess we have a lot of extra bullets now," Butters says when Stan sits down beside him, pissed off about this. 

"We're still calling unnecessary attention to ourselves," Stan says. "Cartman is such an idiot. Sorry," he says when Butters frowns.

"I don't think it's a good idea, either," he says. "But we'll get moving soon, and we're not too far from California." 

"Sure," Stan says. "Did they talk about the border being open at all? At, um, the camp?"

"No, they sure didn't," Butters says. "But that doesn't mean it's closed."

"I know," Stan says, and he glowers in Kyle's direction when he fires another shot, missing this time. "Um, so. What's your opinion on Kyle?" Stan asks. 

"Oh," Butters says. He worries his mug between his hands. "You mean about -- the clothes and stuff?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I'm pretty confused about it," Butters says. "'Cause he really didn't like those clothes at first." 

"He didn't." 

"Nope, he hated that more than anything, seemed like. But, you know." Butters peeked at Stan nervously, his shoulders lifted. "They'd beat us up if we didn't do what they said, so pretty soon we were dressed like that all the time. There was this one fella who would bring us outfits. I think he was the one they'd been doing all this to before us. He was older than us, um. And fatter."

Stan knows who he's talking about. The fat man had entered the house almost as often as the leader, but his stays were much more brief. He seemed to be tasked with bringing daily supplies; Stan had assumed it was just food. 

"He was a real asshole," Butters says. "Sometimes we hated him worse than the ones who were allowed to, um, spend time with us." 

"Did Kyle break down at some point?" Stan asks, the sound of the gun going off and the way Kyle is listening to Cartman's instruction setting his teeth on edge. "I mean, of course he did, but he doesn't talk about any of this."

"I wouldn't expect him to," Butters says. "Kyle's got a lot of pride, you know? I never saw him break down all at once. It was a little at a time, I think. We used to talk about you," Butters says, and he grabs Stan's arm. "That's what we did when they left us alone and we had some peace. We'd sleep, but to get to sleep we'd have to tell each other stories. Kyle would tell me stories about Eric, and I'd tell stories about you."

"What kind of stories?" Stan asks. The idea of Kyle trying to sleep in that place, to actually rest, is somehow the most disturbing thing he's allowed himself to imagine. 

"About how things would have been," Butters says. "If the world hadn't changed, if the infection hadn't come. I'd ask Kyle to tell me stories about how Eric and me would have been in high school, and he was so good at it! He'd put suspense in it, you know, and make sure that Eric really sounded like Eric, which is kind of like a jerk sometimes. But then he'd give me the ending I wanted, like Eric singing me a song or something. I don't think my stories about you were as good, but Kyle was sweet about it, he acted like they were."

"What did you say about me?" Stan asks, because suddenly this seems enormously important. "In the stories -- what kind of things?"

"Oh, all kinds of things! I'm not as creative as Kyle, but I tried to be. Let's see, umm. I told one about how you found a magic flute in the woods and when you played on it all the animals would come and listen. And you kept trying to show Kyle how this worked but they were afraid of him, so when he was there they didn't come, and he thought you were making it up to tease him! But then finally one day Kyle hid in the woods and watched and saw you with all your animal friends -- oh, shoot, this is so silly." 

"That pretty creative, actually." Stan puts his chin in his hand, watching Kyle with the gun. He's wearing his ballet slippers today, the ones with laces that go halfway up his calves. 

"I have to tell you something," Butters says, whispering. Stan looks over at him, exhausted by what he's already heard. 

"What, Butters?"

"Um." Butters chews his lip and taps his fingers on the rim of his mug. "I'm afraid this will make you mad, but I told Eric and he didn't get mad, so maybe not."

"Mad about what?"

"Well. The way we'd do it is we'd take turns. One night would be my turn to tell a Stan story, then the next night it would be Kyle's turn to tell an Eric story. And the one who was having the story told to him would lie there with his eyes closed while the other one sorta leaned there next to him. 'Cause the idea was to get to sleep and not have nightmares. So the story sorta turned into your dreams on the best nights." 

"Why would I be mad about this?" Stan asks. "It sounds -- I'm really glad you did that for each other. That you did that for Kyle, thank you." 

"Well, sometimes it would still be a little real before the person who was listening to the story fell asleep," Butters says. He's turning pink, staring at Stan as if he should know what that means. Stan has a suspicion, but he can't ask, because Kyle and Cartman are headed over with the gun. 

"That was fun," Kyle says, looking at Stan. "Did you see? I hit two cans." 

"Good job," Stan says. "You might have woken me up first, okay, since I don't really love waking up to the sound of gunfire." 

"Sorry," Kyle says. "You just looked so tired." 

"Well, the Jew is a shitty shot," Cartman says. He sits down with the gun across his lap and reaches for a pan of cold potatoes that were probably being saved for Stan. "But he's got a good teacher."

"Don't call me a Jew," Kyle says. It's the first time he's objected to that in years, and nobody asks _why now_. Kyle sits beside Stan, smelling like gun powder and the waxy stuff he puts in his hair to make the braids possible. "Hey!" he says when he notices Cartman picking at the potatoes. "Those are for Stan."

It's warm that night, so they make their bed on the ground and look up at the stars. Stan is tired but Kyle is restless, biting gently at Stan's neck and jaw, leaving little marks. His leg is slung across Stan's hips under their blanket, and Stan wants to squeeze his thigh, but he remains passive, letting Kyle squirm and nip at him. 

"Butters said you guys told each other stories," Stan says, hoping the reminder won't be hurtful. Kyle doesn't go tense or sigh, just moves his hand from Stan's shoulder to his chest. 

"Butters didn't have a very good Stan voice," Kyle says. "But he tried." 

"So you pretended to be --? The person? Sometimes?"

"Yes," Kyle says, a little tightly. "That part he was good at. He's very snuggly. Like you."

"So, you. I mean, I'm really glad. Because I was thinking about it, too. Pretending. I used to pretend your pack was you." 

"What did you do to it?" Kyle asks, lowering his voice in a way that makes Stan nervous.

"Held it. If I was feeling really out of my mind I'd pet it a little." 

"If I was feeling really out of my mind I'd let Butters kiss me and tell me he loved me," Kyle says. "As if he was you. That's what he was trying to tell you. He feels bad about that. Because I did it for him, too, as Cartman." 

"Jesus," Stan says. He rolls toward Kyle, trying to study his eyes. Kyle is giving him a defiant stare, as if he expects Stan to make fun of him for this. "I do love you," Stan says. "Can I -- could we kiss? Sometime, maybe?"

"Maybe," Kyle says, and he rolls onto his back. "The worst part about the whole thing was their mouths. Even sucking dick wasn't as bad as having some hot, disgusting mouth on me. Wanting to be kissed by Butters like that didn't last long, is what I'm saying." He rolls away from Stan, then looks back over his shoulder. "Come here," he says.

Stan scoots over and puts his chin on Kyle's shoulder, spooning him. He's not sure where to put his hand, and Kyle seems to realize this. He finds Stan's hand under the blanket and pulls Stan's arm around him. 

"It makes you feel disgusting just for having a body," Kyle says. "That's what it's like." His voice is clear, but Stan can feel Kyle's neck get hot against his cheek. Stan stays perfectly still, holding his breath, waiting to see if Kyle wants to say more. 

"You don't have to hide any of it from me," Stan says. "If it makes you feel better, you can tell me all the worst stuff. If you want to." 

"That is the worst thing," Kyle says. "What I just told you." 

"You're not disgusting," Stan says, though he knows it's the wrong thing to say. There's just nothing else. "You're what keeps me going. You're everything good." 

"You wanted me to kiss you," Kyle says. "That morning."

"I'm just so glad we're together again," Stan says, not wanting Kyle to think he did anything wrong then, or ever. He closes his eyes against the back of Kyle's neck; his skin is still hot. "Together, however you want it to be, as long as I'm near you I'm okay." 

"You were up there in the hills," Kyle says. "All that time?"

"All but the four days it took us to follow the tire tracks. I used to watch that little window all day. I dreamed all the time that you would open it, that I could just see you and know you were – not okay, but still there." 

Kyle is quiet for a while, touching the tiny hairs on the back of Stan's hand. The bite marks he left on Stan's neck are throbbing, and it feels good. 

"I just wish I had kissed you," Kyle says. "That day. So I'd know." 

"You don't have to do anything that you don't want to--"

"I know that, Stan. Jesus. You think I don't know that when I'm with you?"

They're both quiet for a while. Stan feels like his heartbeat is shaking Kyle from behind, and he wants to apologize for it. Finally Kyle sighs and sits up on his elbow, digging into the pocket of his discarded shorts, which rest beside or within their bed at night. Under the blankets he's wearing cotton panties, dark blue. 

Kyle finds his cigarettes and lights one. He rests his head on Stan's folded arm while he smokes, eventually passing it over to him for a drag. Stan hasn't smoked since before Kyle was taken; they couldn't risk it while they were hiding in the hills, where the brush was dry and the wind dragged the smell of everything they did down into the valley. Smoking feels like fire in his throat now, but it always kinda did.

"I don't want to go to California," Kyle says. 

"No?" Stan thinks of Mexico, his dream of an unspoiled beach. "Well. I meant it, Kyle. You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

"That's such a lie," Kyle says. "I had to go with those men. I had to, Stan, and we all knew it. They'd have killed you if I didn't, and then I'd have ended up with them anyway. And I had to stay alive in that place with the dream that you'd come get me, that you could make what I had to do okay. This whole thing -- the world is a rotted fucking corpse with no hope of a future, and we all just have to march on toward the end, because everybody has to do things they don't want to do." 

"I mean now," Stan says, and he hates himself for attempting to refute what Kyle just said, because all of it is true. "Now that you're with me. Whatever happens, I just want you to be -- as happy as possible." 

"Because I'm your surrogate girl," Kyle says. "That means something different to you, different than what it meant for them. Even for Cartman it's different, with Butters. He wants his mother back. That's what Butters really is for him, if you're paying attention. And you want someone to cuddle and protect. Everybody's replacing what they lost." 

"I didn't lose some girl," Stan says. He did cry when Wendy started getting sick, mostly because his mother and sister had already died and Wendy was the last girl on earth who had once meant a lot to him. "I lost my family. We both did. If we're 'replacing' anything it's that, isn't it? I want to feel like I still have a home. That's you, Kyle. And these fucking sleeping bags." 

"Do you miss Kenny?" Kyle asks.

"Sometimes," Stan says, unwilling to answer dishonestly. He'd often hated Kenny during the past seven months, because Kenny had looked down at the camp like a video game level that he was prepared to try to conquer, not like a bottomless pit of all the worst places where his imagination could take the only person he still loved.

"When they showed us his body, that's the only time I earnestly thought about killing myself," Kyle says. "Because I thought they'd bring you in next, dead. But now I think I would have turned into some kind of phoenix. I would have been so filled with rage and disappointment that I would have transformed into an actual personification of fury, and I would have burned everyone alive. Not just everyone in that camp, everyone left in the world, until it was just me sitting alone on a cinder."

"Is that your way of saying you love me, too?" Stan asks, and he's sure he's going to regret the question, but when Kyle smiles at him it's like every sun that has ever broken a hopeless horizon, everything bright.

That's the first night that Kyle punches Stan in his sleep. He's distressed, crying out with a nightmare, and when Stan tries to comfort him he gets Kyle's fist in his face. 

"Oh, God!" Kyle says when he wakes up and sees what he's done. "Jesus, I can't have anything, can I?" He starts weeping, and Stan finds that he's actually glad to see him crying, finally. He tries to hug Kyle, but Kyle pushes him away and scrambles out of their bed, stumbling away from the camp in his underwear and Stan's shirt, barefoot. 

"What the hell?" Cartman says, throwing open the back door of the van. Butters is clutching at him, looking terrified.

"It's okay," Stan says. "He had a bad dream -- shit, Kyle, wait!"

He follows Kyle through the woods, his socks landing in sticky patches of mud. When Kyle finally runs out of energy he throws himself against the trunk of an ivy-covered tree, his hands disappearing into the vines. 

"Dude, stop!" Stan says as he reaches him, breathless from the run. "It's okay." He wants to touch Kyle, but he's afraid he'll get hit again. Kyle is sobbing, his head dropped between his arms. 

"I don't want to hear what they said anymore," he says. "I don't want it in my head." 

"Can I hug you?" Stan asks. "Do you want that?"

Kyle sinks down to his knees, tearing ivy leaves off the tree as he goes. He holds them over his mouth, and for a moment Stan thinks he's going to eat them, but he just screams into the crumbled mess of them. Stan hasn't heard anyone scream with such despondent horror since the infected men in South Park started to change. He drops down to sit behind Kyle, shaking with the urge to close him into his arms, holding himself back. 

"Part of me wanted them to bring you in after Kenny," Kyle says, his voice muffled by the leaves. "Because then I could just die and be done with it. I didn't want to have to start over, halfway. I don't want this anymore. I don't want to try for something normal. That's all gone forever, even if we get there and California is untouched."

"What do you want?" Stan asks. He can feel the skin around his eye puffing up, the pain reaching him slowly. Kyle pulls the end of one braid into his mouth and sucks on his hair, humming under his breath.

"I want to evaporate," Kyle says. "I don't want this body anymore. I don't want to walk this fucking earth. I want to float. I want to be weightless." He looks at Stan from over his shoulder, his eyes raw and wet. "What do you want?" he asks. "You want me to be okay?"

Stan has to think about it for a minute. He decides to be honest.

"I want to hold you," he says.

"I hit you," Kyle says, and he turns back toward the tree. 

"You were asleep," Stan says.

"Not completely. I don't want to hurt you, but I want to leave marks all over you. I like the thought of it. No -- I want to infect you and then let you eat me alive. But I'm not a real girl." 

"You're so tired, dude," Stan says. He reaches for Kyle's shoulder, touching him very gently, waiting to see if he'll flinch. When he doesn't, Stan leaves his hand there. His heart is slamming, and part of him is afraid that Kyle will whirl around and bare his teeth at him like a cornered animal. "Let's go to the creek and find a cold stone to put on my eye," Stan says. "One of those smooth ones." Butters was collecting them earlier.

"Alright," Kyle says, standing shakily. Stan puts out his hand and Kyle takes it. He stares at the ground while they walk, tears still rolling down his jaw, dripping from the end of his nose. 

At the creek, Kyle chews on his braid while he watches Stan search for a stone. Stan's head is beginning to pound. He refills his pocket canteen from the creek and drinks it directly, something he doesn't usually do. Kyle jumps up from the mossy bank to do the same. He keeps his eyes on Stan's while he drinks, and Stan thinks they might be pantomiming a suicide pact the way they played cops and robbers as kids, when they used their fingers as guns. 

"Your poor feet," Stan says, squatting down to examine them. They're filthy, cut in a few places. "Let me wash them, okay, and I'll carry you back." 

Kyle nods, and he watches Stan clean the dirt and blood from his feet in silence. He's stopped crying, and his head is lolling slightly like he's close to sleep. Stan hoists Kyle into his arms when his feet are clean, and he has to restrain a groan when he feels how heavy Kyle is. By the time they get back to camp Kyle has nodded off, his head resting on Stan's chest. Butters and Cartman are awake, working on the breakfast fire. It's almost morning. 

"We're going to sleep for a while," Stan says. "Try to stay quiet, alright?" 

"Fine," Cartman says. "But we're leaving after breakfast." 

"Eric thinks we might make it to the border today!" Butters says, whispering.

Stan can't think about that yet. He decided at the base of that tree, when Kyle asked him what he wants, to never try to live outside of the moment. It's really the only way to bear what the world has become. He wishes he could give this to Kyle, too, to release him from the past. Stan feels released from the future as he settles Kyle back into the bed, tucking him in and climbing in beside him. Kyle wakes only slightly, moaning and reaching for Stan. They curl up together, and Stan strokes Kyle's hair, his fingers traveling over the brittle, waxy texture and all the way down to the curled end of one braid. 

When Stan wakes up, Cartman is shouting that they need to get their lazy asses moving before the afternoon temperature climbs to 130. The wind through the open windows and the shade inside the cars keeps them cool enough, but neither vehicle was designed for this climate and their engines have overheated a few times. Kyle is already awake, observing Stan mildly. He moans and touches the tender skin around Stan's eye when he winces at the pain of trying to open it. Kyle's eyes are puffy, too, sore-looking.

"I understand," Kyle says. 

"Yeah?" Stan has no idea what Kyle is talking about, but he ignores Cartman's rant and nuzzles Kyle's forehead. 

"About needing to protect and cuddle something," Kyle says. "That's what kept me somewhat sane. Having Butters there. Trying to fight his battles. I get it. When they were gone, I could hold him and tell him it would be alright. He was like a human stress ball I could squeeze. It made me feel like I was doing something, you know, not just sitting back and letting them rip me to pieces. I just don't know how he stayed sane himself. I'm still trying to figure that out." 

"You can squeeze me like a stress ball. I'm a fucking mess, too. I mean, I'm not trying to compare what I've been through to– but I need you, dude. I need you to tell me it'll be alright."

"But it probably won't be alright," Kyle says. 

"That doesn't matter," Stan says. "It's a different kind of promise. I mean, why did you say it to Butters, then? Because you knew it would be alright?"

Kyle huffs. "No." 

"Why, then?"

"I don't know." Kyle frowns and sits up. One of his pigtails, stiff from the wax, is almost perpendicular to his head. He forgot to wash off his eye make-up before bed, before crying, and he looks deranged but beautiful, pulling Stan's flannel around him. "I guess I just liked the idea that I could make Butters feel a little better. It was something to do." Kyle smiles strangely.

"What?" Stan asks, sort of afraid to know.

"I just realized," Kyle says. "How much I missed talking to you. Even when it's this futile conversation about God knows what. And I lose track of whatever point I was trying to make halfway through. It's the only thing I want to do, you know? Killing time with you at the end of the world. Complaining." 

"Yeah," Stan says, and he pulls Kyle down to him, kissing his face without thinking, dryly. Kyle closes his eyes and presses into it when Stan kisses him again, on his cheeks and his nose. He reeks of ivy. "I was about two weeks away from muttering to my pack in bed at night," Stan says. "Missed this so much, fuck." His eyes fill up, though he's approaching something like happiness, and Cartman looms over them. 

"Fuck, Stan," he says. "Quit wibbling. We've all got problems. Get your ass up and pack up the food supplies." 

"Don't _even_ talk to us like you're the leader," Kyle says, sitting up to glare at him. "We will get up whenever we fucking please."

"No, it's okay," Stan says, nervous about the sincerity of Kyle's sudden anger. It's not his usual bickering with Cartman; he looks dangerous, his eyes still slitted as Cartman walks off muttering. "Let's go," Stan says, helping him up. "Unless--"

"Unless?" Kyle stands, adjusting his underwear. His cock is very obvious through the thin blue fabric.

"You said you didn't want to go to California."

"Right," Kyle says. "I also said that I've accepted that I don't get to do what I want. I mean, there's nowhere else to go, Stan. So, c'mon."

They do reach California that day, and there's no wall like in the rumors from three years ago, when far flung rumors replaced news media. There are helicopters hovering over what's probably the Mojave Desert, and just the sight of actual aircraft makes Kyle reach over and grab Stan's wrist in terror.

"It's okay," Stan says, pretty sure that's not true. There are cars up ahead on the road, driving toward them. 

"Stan," Kyle says, his nails digging into the skin on Stan's wrist. 

"Want me to turn around?" Stan asks. "Drive into the desert?"

Kyle doesn't answer. Cartman backs the van up so that they're driving beside each other, slow.

"Well?" Cartman says. "We gonna run for it? Those copters have gun mounts." 

"Doesn't mean they have ammo," Stan says. 

"I think this is the border!" Butters says, shouting this over Cartman. "Maybe they just want to tell us to turn back!" 

"Ha!" Kyle says. "Ha-ha. Not all of us, maybe." He's dressed like a woman, in full makeup with purple barrettes in on the ends of his braids, shorts squeezing into his fleshy thighs, Stan's flannel half-unbuttoned. It's too hot for an undershirt. Stan wants to tell him to cover up, to wipe off the lipstick. 

Before they can make a decision, the caravan ahead is upon them. Stan feels too defeated to plan anything. He's got his gun, and he hands one to Kyle before exiting the Jeep. Maybe he knew they would all die like this in California, too broken to surrender and hope for another escape. Maybe they all knew; maybe this was why they all wanted to come. Kenny had seemed to know he would die when he made his way down to the camp. He'd seemed relieved.

Everyone in the other convoy is wearing black. A few of them have insignias on their shirts that Stan doesn't recognize until they've been beckoned to come closer. Kyle laughs, and it takes Stan a moment to realize why. The insignias depict a bird rising from flames: a phoenix. 

"Miss," a man in what looks like a bullet-proof vest says, shouting over the sound of the hovering helicopters. He's speaking to Kyle. "Where've you come from?"

"He's not a girl!" Stan says. He's got his gun raised, and he's disturbed by the fact that no one in the opposite party has drawn a weapon or asked him to lower his. "He's just dressed like one!"

The man stares at them for a moment, then turns to say something to a taller man beside him, who leans down to allow the first one to whisper in his ear. There are about ten of them total, making a human wall across the road, probably more in the cars.

"We're gonna need all of you to come with us," the first guy says. 

"And why should we?" Cartman asks, cocking his gun. Butters is standing behind him, his fingers hooked into the waistband of Cartman's pants. Kyle and Cartman both look ready to shoot. Stan isn't sure what he's ready for: an ending, probably, just that.

"Our operation controls everything from this borderline to the Pacific," the man says. "We provide shelter for survivors, but nobody gets in without a health screening. Especially if they're traveling with a lady." He looks at Kyle again, and there's heartbreak mixed with the suspicion on his face. Stan isn't sure if it's because he thinks he'll have to quarantine this young girl or because he can tell just by looking at Kyle that he's not actually female, just a false alarm. 

"That's no lady!" Cartman says. "Kyle, show them your dick!"

Kyle looks at Stan, and Stan feels it in his throat like someone has thrown a sword straight through his neck, cutting him off in mid-breath. Kyle is looking like him like he's asking if he really has to take his clothes off to prove what he's not. 

“No,” Stan says. 

“Come with us, please,” the man in the bullet-proof vest says again. 

The organization calls themselves the United Remainders and they have zero female members. They seem okay, but Stan won't let them examine Kyle alone. He tries to explain that Kyle is traumatized without saying anything that will humiliate him, because he's there during the negotiations, at least physically. He's staring into space like he's sure that if he doesn't make eye contract with anyone he won't be detected. Eventually they allow Stan into the room during Kyle's examination, and he has to look away when Kyle undresses for them, showing them what he really is. They're all reunited when they're confirmed as Not Infected, and after a brief interview a man who introduces himself as Chief Human Relations Officer Wattley asks if he can speak to Stan alone.

“I'll be right back,” Stan says, patting Kyle's hand. Kyle is breathing shallowly, his eyes still unfocused. “Butters,” Stan says, so sharply that Butters jumps. “Tell him it'll be alright.” 

“It'll be alright, Kyle,” Butters says, reaching across Cartman's lap to take Kyle's other hand. Wattley clears his throat and Stan lets his hand slide away from Kyle's, follows him out of the room. 

“We have resources available for you boys,” Wattley says when he's alone with Stan, out in the hallway. They're in a building that used to be a rural high school, far from the actual settlements, which are apparently near the coast. “But I can't bring him into our community if he's going to dress like that. It will upset people.” 

“It will upset him if you don't let him dress like that,” Stan says. “Like, he might break down completely. Like, this is how he's coping with what happened to him. So.”

“You said he was kidnapped?” Wattley says. He's a tall guy with a gray buzz cut, maybe fifty. Stan hasn't seen anyone so old or sturdy-looking in a while. He nods.

“By like thirty guys,” Stan says. “For seven months. Look, he's not going to go walking around town, anyway. He's terrified of strangers. Just let him keep his clothes. He'll stay out of sight while he's dressed like that, I promise.” 

Stan makes this promise believing that Kyle won't need the clothes much longer. The settlement they're assigned to is near what used to be San Diego, and it's well organized, quiet, populated with young men who have been through a lot. It seems like the kind of place where Kyle can heal over a period of years or for the rest of his life, whatever it takes. 

They're given two rooms in the same building, and Cartman and Butters take the one on the first floor while Stan and Kyle move into a room on the second floor. The building was once a luxury hotel, but this only makes its current state of whitewashed austerity more eerie. They have their own working bathroom, which is a miracle, and a balcony that looks over what was once a pool. It's been filled with soil and serves as a community garden: tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, snap beans, herbs. Stan is assigned a job in the kitchen, chopping those vegetables and others that come from bigger plantings. Kyle is exempted from work because of his condition. Stan brings him his meals in his room. There is a community dinner where men play cards at the table, but most people seem to eat in their rooms. 

Kyle continues to dress in women's clothes, eschewing Stan's flannel shirt for little dresses that he makes from bedclothes or whatever else he can find, securing them around him like towels with hair clips holding them in place. His hair gets longer and he tries different styles, but usually defaults to the pigtails. As the weather gets colder he begins to wear the knee high socks he took from the camp almost every day, padding around the room in them, chain smoking and drawing on the walls. He draws birds, duplicating them in careful order as if he's trying to create a wallpaper pattern. He punches Stan in the face almost every time he wakes from a nightmare, which is often, but Stan never has the will or the presence of mind not to lunge toward him and try to calm him down. Stan's nose begins to resemble a boxer's, square and fat, and one of his front teeth gets chipped, but he tells Kyle – and means it – that he thinks it makes him look tough, that he likes it.

“Maybe you shouldn't do that,” Stan says when he comes home from work one day and sees Kyle leaning on the porch railing, smoking a cigarette and looking down at the courtyard. He's getting a little better at making dresses, using a needle and thread that Stan traded for, cutting out his patterns with some scissors instead of a knife.

“But look,” Kyle says, turning. There's a pair of platform sandals with blue straps in his hand. “Someone tossed these up for me.”

“Who?” Stan asks, hurrying to him. He gathers Kyle into his arms and checks the courtyard below, but there's no one down there.

“Some guy,” Kyle says. “He said they were his sister's. He wanted me to have them.” 

“Get inside,” Stan says, sharply, and Kyle shrugs. 

“I'm bored,” Kyle says. 

Stan treads lightly, wanting to remind him that he can rejoin society if he cuts off his braids and dresses like a boy. He doesn't say anything, just shuts the doors that lead to the porch and pulls the curtains over them. 

They don't do anything overtly sexual, but sometimes in bed Stan wakes up to the feeling of Kyle kissing the back of his neck in delicate little pecks. When Stan is awake Kyle mostly gives him love bites, and Stan gets a lot of looks for the condition of his neck. Stan gets erections, and if Kyle does Stan doesn't see them. 

“Check it out,” Kyle says one evening after he's taken his bath. He's wearing only panties – cranberry red, Stan doesn't recognize them, worries about this – and a clinging white tank, his wet hair already braided neatly. Stan is kneeling on the floor, working on trying to fix a cheese grater with a crank that he found in the kitchen. If he can, it will make shredding carrots super easy. 

“What am I looking at?” Stan asks when Kyle puts his foot near Stan's folded legs, arching it dramatically. 

“My leg,” Kyle says. “I just shaved.”

“You always shave,” Stan says, and he feels badly for pointing it out. He's never sure what about Kyle's adopted femininity he should talk about and what he should pretend not to notice. 

“Yes, but, feel,” Kyle says, reaching down to rub his fingers over his leg. Just seeing this makes Stan's dick a little stiff. “The first five hundred times I did it I'd get those little red bumps, right? Now it's totally smooth. Feel.” 

Stan does, and it quickly gets out of hand, his fingers sliding up toward Kyle's thigh and back down again. He's breathing hard, cock aching, staring up at Kyle and begging permission. Kyle grins and picks up his foot, resting it against the bulge in Stan's pants. 

“Can I lick you?” Stan asks, his hands still moving on Kyle's leg. He feels like he's going to throw up.

“You may,” Kyle says. He bends down to pat Stan's head. “My good boy.” 

That's disturbing, but Stan is already licking him, moaning, his hands wrapped around Kyle's calf. All Kyle has to do is move his foot a little and Stan comes in his pants, his chipped tooth scraping Kyle's perfect leg. Kyle groans and grabs his dick through his panties. Stan is almost too delirious to realize what's happening before Kyle comes hard enough that some of it seeps through the porous cotton. 

“Oh, shit,” Stan says, putting his fingers over the cut on Kyle's leg, blood leaking from where Stan's tooth scraped him.

“Yeah,” Kyle says breathlessly. “Lick – there. Please.” 

Stan does, beginning to feel like he'll be sobbing before this is done. Kyle drops down into his lap and presses his face to Stan's, still panting. He kisses Stan with blunt determination, shoving his tongue into Stan's mouth. Stan tastes blood and soap, and he tilts his head back, letting Kyle have him, not sure if he should dare answering swipes of his tongue. 

Kyle ends up being the one who throws up, all over Stan's shirt. He had beets for dinner; Stan spent the afternoon chopping them. 

“No, but I liked it,” Kyle says, stroking Stan's face when he bursts into tears. “Except for the kissing, maybe.”

They have Cartman and Butters over for dinner sometimes, and to play cards. Butters is bolstered by being useful; he works in the laundry and his hands are always raw. Cartman has of course graduated to management, security division. He wears a community-issued handgun on his belt. 

“I've been hearing some things around town about a red-headed woman,” Cartman says one evening when they're sitting around the little card table in Stan and Kyle's apartment, eating slices of a spice cake that Stan made for the occasion. Cartman is staring at Kyle, waiting for him to acknowledge this remark. Kyle is concentrating on eating his cake as if he didn't hear. 

“You should be careful, Kyle!” Butters says. “We just don't want anything to happen to you.”

“Nothing will,” Stan says, and he glowers at Cartman. “What's he supposed to do, stay away from the window like a vampire? It's your job to keep people from congregating without a permit, so keep them away from our courtyard.” 

“Oh, God,” Kyle says. “Those idiots are harmless.” 

“Kyle!” Stan says, turning on him. “You don't know that.” 

“They just—” Kyle shrugs one shoulder, slowly, still looking at his cake. “They know I'm not a girl. They just like having something to look at.”

“Kyle,” Butters says, starting to cry. “Please.” 

“Please nothing,” Cartman says. “I'll nail your fucking doors shut if you keep this up. You're going to start a riot, never mind what they'll do to you on a more – personal level.”

“You need to go,” Stan says, standing. 

“I'm warning you about this on two levels,” Cartman says as he rises from the table. He's gained a lot of weight since they arrived here, and his hair line is receding. “One,” he says, holding up a finger that he then points at Kyle, “For his safety. Two, because if this behavior doesn't stop they'll throw you out of here. I'm serious, you guys.” 

“Maybe I don't like it here that much,” Kyle says. 

“Yeah, you liked it out there, did you?” Cartman says, pointing toward the door. “You liked that better?”

“Get out,” Stan says. Cartman scoffs and throws the napkin he had tucked into his shirt on the table. 

“Thanks for the cake,” Butters says, sniffling and taking Cartman's outstretched hand on the way out.

Stan locks the door behind them, and when they're gone he stands there for a while, his hands braced against the door, head hanging down. He can hear the click of Kyle's fork against a plate, and he knows Kyle is finishing the rest of Butters' cake, scraping up the frosting. 

“Look,” Stan says when he's gathered himself enough to walk back into the main room. “I know you're hurting, okay, but I need you to level with me. As your partner.” This is what they call each other, and they mean it in the sense of cops who've been paired together, people who are trying to solve a crime. “If you have some sort of agenda, fill me in. Let me know.”

“Agenda?” Kyle guffaws and looks up from his cake, his lips shining from licking the sugar off his fork. “I'm smoking cigarettes on my porch. If people want to come around and toss me their dead lady friends' old clothes, that's their choice, not mine.” 

“You didn't really make that, did you?” Stan asks, referring to the dress Kyle is wearing. It's a strapless sun dress with fold-over bodice that's meant to show cleavage, pale blue with a green and pink flower print. Kyle had claimed that Butters brought him the fabric while Stan was at work. 

“What the hell am I supposed to do?” Kyle asks. “Write my memoirs? It's not like you'll fuck me.”

“What does me – _what_? What does me fucking you or not have to do with it? Do you think I don't want to? I get hard from watching you smoke, Jesus.” 

He knows he shouldn't have said any of that. Kyle has his elbows braced on the table, the tips of his fingers pressed together lightly, as if he's considering Stan's business proposal. 

“You wouldn't want to do it without kissing,” Kyle says. 

“I only want whatever you want!”

“Oh, I doubt it,” Kyle says. 

“How can you think that?”

“Uh.” Kyle reaches into the knee sock he's wearing and pulls out the straight razor he uses to shave his legs. He shaves Stan's face with it, too, twice a week. “I want you to cut me with this,” Kyle says. “Not bad, just like you did with my leg. With your tooth. That time.” 

“I don't want to hurt you.” Stan wants to drop to his knees and beg until Kyle turns into a phoenix and burns the room down around them. He's not sure what else he wants except to never hurt Kyle, not even a little, not even at his request. Especially not then.

“I've tried doing it myself,” Kyle says, slipping the razor back into his sock. Stan has noticed little cuts on Kyle's legs. He thought they were from shaving. “It's not quite right. Not like when you did it.”

“That was an accident,” Stan says. 

“I know,” Kyle says. “And maybe I liked that aspect, too, who knows. You want me to level with you? I want to get out of here.”

“And go where?”

“Someplace where they don't take one look at Cartman and make him the Sheriff. Someplace where I don't have to see Butters' lip shake every time he looks at me, like I'm someone he left behind on a sinking ship. Stan, I. I think I want to go back to South Park.”

“Oh, God,” Stan says. He puts his hands over his face and breathes in deep, smelling the spices he worked with, the vanilla extract he put into the frosting. It's all precious; he had to take two extra shifts to trade for it. For a fucking cake, Kyle's favorite, then Kyle wouldn't even eat it all himself. He insisted they have Cartman and Butters over to share it after looking at Stan like he was a beloved cat who'd brought him a dead mouse after he surprised him with it. 

“I think Kenny is there,” Kyle says. He picks up Stan's plate and licks the frosting off. 

“Kenny is dead,” Stan says. 

“Is he?” Kyle frowns, and for a moment Stan is confused, too. “Oh, yeah.” 

Neither of them sleeps after they've climbed into bed that night. Kyle lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. Stan curls up at his side and strokes his arm apologetically, though he has nothing to apologize for. After a while Kyle makes an irritable noise and pulls his arm away. 

“What if we went home and it was all back to normal?” he says. “Including me?”

“That would be wonderful,” Stan says. “But.”

“You wanted to live at the beach. I feel like I'm in prison.” He turns his face against Stan's. “Sorry, that was cruel.”

“No – I understand. It's just. I couldn't keep you safe before, when we were on our own. And then I needed Kenny and Cartman to help me get you back after I'd fucked everything up.” 

“You?” Kyle frowns. “No, you didn't fuck anything up. What?”

“You wanted to leave the creek, Kyle. I voted to stay.” 

“Voted.” Kyle rolls his eyes. “Don't even start with that shit. They would have caught up to us anyway. They had cars, Stan.” 

“Oh.” Somehow, Stan had never thought of that. “Give me that razor.”

Kyle looks at the ceiling, the corner of his eye twitching.

“No,” he says. 

“Let me shave your legs from now on. How's that? Is that a fair compromise? I'll fuck it up a lot at first, but I'll get better. So – so you can have a little of what you want, for a while. And then maybe you won't want it anymore.” 

“Stan.” Kyle closes his eyes. “If you want me to stop dressing like this, you have to take me away from here. This is who I am in mixed company. It just is.” 

Stan starts looking into ways to take Kyle elsewhere, increasingly concerned as his wardrobe grows. During his lunch breaks at work, Stan goes out to the courtyard, always afraid that he'll see Kyle smoking on the balcony and winking at guys who are waiting below, but he never sees any evidence of this happening. This worries him further, but his research into other places to live that are even remotely safe yields nothing. 

Stan's twenty-first birthday arrives, and somehow they've been in the settlement for a year. He asks for the day off of work for the occasion, and wakes up when Kyle is crawling down his body, pulling out his dick. 

“Wait,” Stan says, his legs spreading automatically. “You don't have to.”

“I know,” Kyle says. He sighs, contemplating Stan's dick, watching it grow harder in his palm. “I'm not doing it for you. This is the one thing I did before – before, okay? I want it all the fucking time, just. Let me do it. I want to remember. Okay?”

“Okay,” Stan says. He doesn't like how far away Kyle is, wants to pull him closer but doesn't want to dare any movement beyond blinking.

“Happy birthday, by the way,” Kyle says, and he puts his mouth around Stan's cockhead. He's much, much better than he was last time, and recognizing this makes Stan take a long time to come. He worries that Kyle will be insulted by this, but when Stan finally comes and recovers enough to look down, Kyle is smiling, wiping his mouth. “Yep,” he says. “I wasn't remembering wrong. I like the way yours tastes.” 

They discover other things Kyle likes. He's never had a rim job, and decides he wants to try it. He's a big fan.

One day, Stan comes home and Kyle is wearing Stan's old flannel and a pair of his pants. He has his braids tucked up under one of the baseball hats Stan wears at work to keep his hair out of the food.

“I want to go on a field trip,” Kyle says. It's the first time Stan has seen him without eyeliner since he mysteriously acquired a few sticks of it a year ago. He's wearing a little lip gloss, but it would not be obvious to the casual observer. 

“Okay,” Stan says. He walks into the apartment and sets down a hard boiled egg and some cubed ham, Kyle's dinner. “Where to?”

Stan prays that he won't say South Park, because he's pretty sure he'll take Kyle all the way back to that graveyard if he asks.

“The ocean, I guess,” Kyle says. “Maybe you'll find enough driftwood to build a shack. Remember when you wanted a shack on the beach?”

“I still want that,” Stan says. 

Kyle grins and lets his head fall back. He's seated at the table, his legs tucked to his chest. 

"I know you do," he says. 

Stan borrows a car from a guy at work and they drive to the perimeter of the territory: the shore. As they're closing in on it Stan feels lucky, because it seems no one is around. When they climb out of the car and walk down over the dunes he can see why. The beach is littered with debris of all kinds: an old washing machine half buried in the sand, a multitude of car parts, a laptop computer with most of the keys missing, lying open like a shell. Stan is horrified, because this was important for Kyle, a big step, and the beach is so depressing that Stan feels heavier all over, struggling to walk through the sand. 

"Oh, man!" Kyle says, skipping ahead of him. "Look at all this _stuff_!"

It's junk, but Kyle is fascinated. A busted oscillating fan - he hasn't seen one in years! Hubcaps, clothespins, a green necktie. The best stuff is at the waterline: monstrous wreckage from ships, a helicopter blade, a rusted chain with links as big as Kyle's head. He flits among the garbage, cataloging it, and after a while Stan begins to see the beach the way Kyle does. It's not dirty; the water is clean and there's no paper litter, no glass. The objects that have washed ashore have been polished by the water, and when the sun starts to sink they gleam. Kyle takes his pants off when they're wet almost up to the knees; he's walking in the surf, barefoot. 

"If we walk down far enough I bet we'll find a beach house nobody's using," Kyle says, speaking to Stan from over his shoulder as they walk. 

"Yeah," Stan says. He's ready to walk until they're in Alaska, as long as Kyle keeps expressing fascination with every new thing they come across. 

Eventually they stop, and Kyle pulls his knife from the front pocket of the flannel.

"Kyle," Stan says, his bones going cold. 

"Let me just do this part," Kyle says. They're in a relatively uncluttered section of shoreline, only what might have been a lamp stand and a trellis with a fishing net twisted around it in their immediate path. Up ahead there's the tail of a jet, but that's probably another mile or two off. Kyle walks deeper into the water, until it's swirling around his knees. Stan follows him out, carrying Kyle's shoes, his pants. He's not going to let Kyle kill himself just because he wants to go out on a good memory. Stan wants to live, and he won't without Kyle.

Before Stan can get there, Kyle makes the cut: the left braid first, then the right. He regards them for a moment before flinging them into the waves. 

"Those things were their idea, anyway," Kyle says as Stan drags him back toward the shore, out of the changing tide. "I forgot that, somehow." 

On the beach, Stan cuts Kyle's hair by the light of the sunset. Kyle is sitting in Stan's lap, facing him, patient while Stan tries to even out his hairstyle. Mostly it looks like a dog chewed his hair off, and when Stan confesses that this is the case Kyle laughs hard, throwing his head back.

"We should head back," Stan says when the knife is stuck in the sand, blade down. "Before it gets dark, you know?" 

"I know," Kyle says. He's holding Stan's face, rubbing his thumb over a bruise that he gave Stan a week ago during a nightmare. "Your poor nose," he says, kissing it.

"I think you made a man out of me," Stan says. 

"Oh," Kyle says. Stan didn't mean to make him sad. "Well, here," Kyle says, his lips brushing against Stan's. "Be a boy again for a second. I'll be one, too." 

They kiss, soft and tentative, no tongues. Stan's hands are on Kyle's waist, his heart high in his throat, threatening to spill out through his lips. Kyle licks Stan's bottom lip, pulls it gently through his teeth. When Kyle blinks his eyes open Stan feels like he's looking at some newly naked part of him. It's the lack of eyeliner, maybe. 

The sinking sun sets the broken machinery around them on fire with new color, and Kyle kisses Stan again, squeezing Stan's waist with his legs and pulling him out of the ground, a man who was almost buried alive. Stan takes his first breath just in time, almost too late, and pushes it back into Kyle's mouth.

 

(the end)


End file.
